Condemned

21 | Sam

I do my best not to lose track of the days. It isn't easy. One drags into the next, and they're as monotonous as they are long.

I can't distinguish Wednesday from Thursday or whatever. I think it's Saturday, by the way, but I wouldn't put money on that. If I'm right, that would make it my fifth day in this hellhole.

There are no highlights to speak of. Only lowlights on repeat. Bland meals. Dark, eerie nights. My light fixture has no lightbulb. I'm not sure it would work even if there was. So, I just sit here, shuddering in the dark, trying to pick out natural from supernatural. Good from evil. Haunted . . . hallucinatory . . . I don't know where to draw the line anymore.

Howling, creaking, loud sacred music from centuries past, banging against the walls, and cries of pleasure or pain—it's hard to tell the difference—footsteps that fade in and out, some that approach my door but never come in or go away.

Someone in this house plays the violin. Pretty well, in fact. I might have some appreciation for it if I liked classical music and wasn't forced to listen to the same few pieces, for hours on end, at a time I'm normally sleeping.

Hard to believe, but I prefer the night. I'm only bothered by the noise. Although I've had more luck resting during the day, I'm always anticipating my Mistress's arrival, at consistent intervals. Prue has been my only "company" so far, and she gets slap-happy if I'm stubborn or talk back. Or if I'm forced to speak and my answers don't come out at the speed, volume, and depth she demands, and her demands are never the same twice.

You get the idea. I can do no right.

Prue certainly doesn't like that I'm "late." My period has yet to grace us with its presence. That makes me a harlot, of course. A lying one. And, according to her, if I happen to be pregnant—and she will eventually check—she'll gut me, roast me on a spit, and feed us both to the wolves.

Even on my darkest days, and the last few are right up there, I couldn't make this stuff up. My tears have dried up, so when she makes these outrageous threats, I just have to laugh. And, of course, I get smacked for it, and still, I can't make it stop. It goes to show you how much I'm losing it. On day five! I'm no soldier, but I thought I'd at least last the week...

What can I do to slow my descent? Lots and lots of pushups, squats and lunges, and as many crunches as I can stand. Working out is probably delaying my curse, but so be it. As my only glimmer of hope, it's worth the disdain I bring on when my body doesn't cooperate with their agenda.

The bathroom is the only place I'm not seen on camera. As far as I know. Prue hasn't commented on the time I spend in here, at any rate. She probably would comment, but I keep the noise and vibration down, and clean myself up well before she's known to arrive—it's the only reason the tub's trickle of cold water is at all bearable.

I'm sure someone is keeping tabs on me, but, for whatever reason, they're not sharing this information with her. I shouldn't assume they're on my side, but at least they're not fully on hers.

During a set of push-ups, the door to my room bursts open without much warning. It's usually near-dark when I get my evening meal—dry chicken and an even drier baked potato—and the sun is still above the treetops, so I'm anticipating a new sort of trouble. This is the first break to Prue's routine, and I need her to stay unaware of mine. I've been denied every other way to pass the time, and I can't lose this, too.

I haul my upper body away from the doorless bathroom entryway and squat by the toilet, a place where she can't as easily see me. I did, however, catch sight of them. Yes, two people have come in. Prue brought up another woman—tall, fit, early to mid-twenties, short dark hair beneath an army-green baseball cap.