I trace my shaking finger along a deep crack in the cold concrete floor while curled in the fetal position. The loose gray material flakes under my fingers if I use enough force; it’s somewhat entertaining.
Not entertaining enough to keep my mind off of my growling stomach. I slept for what seems like ages, yet I’m not entirely sure what time it is.
One thing I know for sure: they’ve yet to bring me food. Perhaps they forgot about me? Or maybe I was right in doubting prisoners get food, even ones as high status as I am- or was.
“It doesn't matter,” I whisper. After all, if I don’t agree to say I’m something I’m clearly not- Crevan will have me killed anyway. Maybe I could admit to it, and everything would be okay? No. Why would I agree to something I know I’m not?
Clang, eeek. My ears
