Free writes

Trust

I wake up and find myself where I have been for the past week. Every time I go to sleep, I hope to wake up in my bed, and find out that this is all one bad nightmare. But life isn't fair is it? This is real. This is not a nightmare. There is no escape. No hope for me. I find the little strength I have in me to sit up, the chain still tightly shackled around my ankle, cutting more into my skin. I glance at my ankle, to see how much worse it's gotten. More blood, that's all. If there's one useful thing this shackle is doing, is keeping me from bleeding out. Though, I wish it wasn't stopping that from happening. There is no escape, and if I'm alive here for the rest of my life, it would be excruciating. I take a look around the room. Everything is the same. The same cursed cold, grey walls with no windows. The uncomfortable dirt floor mixed with who knows what. The same wet ceiling, slowly dripping drops of dirty water. The single dim light bulb in the center of the room.

The wooden door to the room opens and the same man walks through. The same mashed face. The same dark attire. Grey shirt covered by a black hoodie, dark blue jeans, black socks and shoes. No gloves though. You'd think someone would wear gloves doing such horrendous things, but not this man. No gloves. I can see his tanned hands, clear as light. Ironic, there's so little light here, and yet I can see his appearance so well. I saw a tray in his hands. A hot steamy bowl of something, a slice of bread, and water. I only get three meals a day, every other day. It's better than nothing, but it still leaves me weak. The man walks up to me and silently puts the tray down in front of me. He stares at me, unmoving, as if he's waiting for me to do something. A if reading my thoughts, he pushes the tray closer to me. Does he want to see me eat? I pick up the spoon that's next to the bowl and get a spoonful of what's in the bowl. Oatmeal. That's what it is, oatmeal. Not my favorite thing, but if it'll keep me alive, then so be it. I put the spoon in my mouth, letting the oatmeal into my mouth. It tastes, well, like a normal oatmeal breakfast. I honestly didn't expect that. I was expecting it to taste a lot worse. "Do you like it?"

I jumped, not expecting him to talk. He never said anything before. Why does he care? "W-what?"

"Do you like it?" He repeated himself. "The oatmeal."

"Uh..." I like it, but what am I supposed to say? He's holding me prisoner. I know that if you're ever in a situation where someone captured you, you act calm and like a friend. It would make them more open, and trust you more, allowing you more freedom. But I don't want to do that right now, I want to scream and yell at him. Though, that won't do anything. "It's good." I said.

"Good to know." He said, turning around leaving the room. If he engaged in conversation, only though it was a single question, then there is hope for me to talk him into trusting me. There is hope.