Escape is futile, as expected.
When my tears dry up and leave a desolate wasteland in their tracks, I dully make fanciful escape plans to pass the hours.
I could fling my chamber pot like a frisbee at the window hard enough to break the iron bars and climb down by tying my bedsheets together. But the chamber pot of cheap tin isn't strong enough to bend iron bars wider than my tiny wrist. Besides, at the moment, it is embarrassingly full as the servant who brings in my meals like clockwork empties it at that time.
It's small moments like this that make me fervently long for modern appliances like the toilet. I exist in a state of limbo, the passages of time marked by the changing shadows that arch across the bedroom floor. I have nothing to work towards, nothing to look forward to. I can only wait for the inevitable verdict.
