The Desert Dungeon

It's been one week.  I've counted the days by observing the cyclic appearance of a spot of light on the otherwise dark basement floor. It traces the arc of the sun through the sky. I could make a damned sundial if I traced its path.

My captors locked me inside this basement, entombed behind an ancient metal door, apparently to be entombed. The United State's government does not negotiate with terrorists. I guess they got the message. Before they had just thought the United States were jokesters. In this quasi-christian nation, I suppose not personally executing me offered a chance of redemption, somewhere for someone at some point. I really mean, I hope it was a religious decision.  Otherwise, they are just assholes.

I use a rock to bang on the door, whenever I think I hear someone on the outside. My paranoia has convinced me that everyone in this country is a terrorist.  Not completely sure that there is not an unspoken agreement that whoever is put in this basement, stays in this basement. Or maybe I have it all wrong. There are good people out there. Including my captors. Them, leaving me here, was an attempt to release me. Their plans foiled by the lack of ears to hear my banging and the lack of my banging due to hunger.

If they had wanted to release me then I'd have been released.

I am hungry. This hunger amongst the rancid smell of my own feces is sick, how can I be hungry? When the heat of the day rises to its apex the flies, shit, and humidity combine into the most rotten of soups. I'd puke if there was something in my stomach.

In these last days of my life I am surrounded by my own filth, with an empty stomach, an empty soul, cursing the heavens for making me human when I would have been better suited as an animal.  If an afterlife exists, I'd rather not bring this memory with me. If an afterlife doesn't exist. Even better.