It's disgusting to admit that I look forward to Marisol's presence, even though her treatment has only gone downhill. At least she brings food.
The first day I was brought here, there were voices. Whispers. Noises through the walls.
Lately, it's nothing but silence.
Every so often, there's that dripping water sound that lasts for hours, which used to drive me mad but is now a break from the monotony of nothing.
The clinking of the manacles around my wrists and ankles echoes in the dank cell as I gnaw at the hunk of bread in my hands, its crust stale and unappetizing. But hunger gnaws at my stomach, and this is my only way to fill it.
Marisol is crouched mere feet away, her eyes wide and curious as she watches me eat. It's unnerving, the way she observes me like I'm some sort of exotic creature in a zoo. I try to ignore her, focusing instead on the meager meal in front of me.
