Three Days in Hell

I awoke. My back muscles screamed as I stretched up from the freezing cement floor. I felt back with a fist; it felt like I had rocks under my skin. Ow.

Three days since I’ve been here. In this misery. In this hell. It’s three days of torture, of six-inch needles creeping their way inside me, of slimy, fishy lips sneering words of contempt. Three days of concrete. Concrete darkness. Three days of cold. Of hurt. Of total and absolute pain.

I looked around.

It was still night . . . or maybe day. It was impossible to tell. The only thing that had woken me up, then, was probably the muffled crashes and yelling from outside the door. The noises fluctuated from time to time, getting louder or softer. I wondered what was happening outside . . . but it didn’t matter. It didn’t have anything to do with me.

And my eyes closed and my dignity was lost and I was lying in my own sweat and vomit and urine. My eyes closed, and a tear mixed with the other body fluids as I drifted off once more to sleep.

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