I’m getting desperate now. Punching this omnipotent blockade that is in between me and freedom, if that is what is over my head. Who knows? It could be a lavatory or the bloody House of Commons for all I know. But there’s one thing for sure it’s getting harder and harder to breath. Inhaling feels like I just had a jar of jalapeños and exhaling is irritated this spec of dirt in the back of my throat. I’m getting thirstier, hungrier and more worried by the moment. I have no idea how much time has elapsed. Curiosity gets to me. What time is it? Time. How much time do I have left before I dose off to a permanent coma. I’ve always wanted my death to be quick. Die in sleep? - yes please. -Bullet to the head? – Go ahead. - Drown? Die of starvation in a secluded box? - No thank you. – A rumble echoed in the box, I hope it’s my stomach. It wasn’t…
