Total pages in book: 25
Estimated words: 23113 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 116(@200wpm)___ 92(@250wpm)___ 77(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 23113 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 116(@200wpm)___ 92(@250wpm)___ 77(@300wpm)
Yet none of this really matters compared to the overarching fact that I am currently being held captive, and that they’re going to take my baby once I’ve delivered him or her. That thought fills me with fear, and I break out in constant sweats because of it. I don’t care what happens to me, but I want my child, and my child is best off if he or she stays with me. They can’t pry the baby from my arms, can they? I’ve done nothing wrong!
I spent my entire first day lying on the cot in my cell. I turned in to face the wall and just lay there, stock still. I silently sobbed as I mourned my past life. I tried time and time again to pull it together, but I didn’t have the strength.
After multiple hours of staring at the wall, I began to dissociate as a means of self-soothing. I lie with my eyes wide open, but I was no longer seeing the cold cell walls around me. I was back home, sitting around the kitchen table with my family. I know, it’s bizarre. My parents betrayed me and I should hate them. But the thought of hanging around the house with Mark and Susan is the most normal thing I know, and it’s really all I know. Or at least, it was.
I forced myself to hear my mom’s laugh, and I watched my dad work his way around the kitchen making himself a drink. I smelled the vanilla scented candles that fill the house every cool fall night. But then their betrayal strikes me again full force, and I begin to cry.
I have to get it together though. Wiping away my tears, I force myself to think of Jordan instead. We’re lying in his bed together. I feel the soldier’s soft sheets slide across my legs as he pulls me close against him, the heat of his body warming my own. I hear his breath in my ear. Calm trickles over me, and finally, I feel my muscles begin to soften and my eyelids grow heavy for the first time since my arrival.
Upon awakening, my head feels clearer, and my thoughts less muddy. I’m ready to start fighting, for my baby if no one else. I begin surveying, plotting, and brainstorming, and now, I finally have a plan. I’ll find my way out of here no matter what it takes.
I approach the guard who patrols my section and ask him for a journal to write in. At first, he pretends not to understand English.
“Please,” I plead, my voice unsteady. “It would mean so much to me.”
He finally looks at me with some pity.
“What’ya need a journal for?” he asks, his thick accent camouflaging the simple words. I swallow gratefully.
“I’ve noticed a lot of the other women have them. I thought it might be helpful for me to write down my thoughts at the end of the day.” He stares at me blankly. My stomach churns at what I know I must say to pull this off. Maybe I’ve watched too many Cold War movies, but something tells me that a confessional will do the trick.
“I’ve come to terms with why I’m here, and I want to get the most out of my time. I want to figure out what is wrong with me and to fix it before being released back into society. I don’t want to make a dirty mistake like this again.” I’m lying through my teeth and I hate myself for it because my baby is the most precious thing to me in the world. But it works.
He smiles.
“Wait here.”
I stand, holding back tears as he goes to fetch a paper and pen from somewhere. I remind myself that this is all part of the plan. I didn’t mean those words, and they’re just drivel. Yet, they might set me free.
He comes back, and I take the pen and paper gratefully. Then, I go back to my cell and begin to write, stopping every few minutes to glance up at the guard, whom I suspect is named Isar. He thinks I’m a woman fallen from grace, and yet I see the way he looks at me. He appreciates my curvaceous form, and the fact that my brown curls are still springy and shiny, even in this dilapidated prison.
I scribble a bit, and then place my open journal on the floor in front of my cot before heading off to pick up my chore assignment for tomorrow. I have one hour until we are to be locked inside our cells for the night, and I’m hoping it is enough time for Isar to take the bait.
Sure enough, when I return, I find the guard leaning against the cell, my journal in hand.
“Um, is everything okay here?” I ask, blinking innocently. Isar looks at me, and he’s not ugly. He’s dark and unshaven, with a spindly frame. He’s also young and looks like he could be manipulated.