Chapter 3: Marking Time

The blood on my head finally stopped.

There are no windows in this place—no way to see sunrise, sunset, or stars—just the guards’ meal deliveries to mark the days. A stale sandwich, maybe some instant mashed potatoes. Sometimes there’s a hint of meat flavor, but never any meat in the food.

Only one meal a day—not enough to starve, but not enough to feel alive.

Most of the time, I’m so hungry my heart aches, but I try not to think about it. Hugging my growling stomach, I walk to the wall, pull out the bobby pin from my hair, and carve a line into the concrete.

Day thirteen.

The wall is crumbly, easy to dig—one poke with the bobby pin makes a little hole.

I thought about doing a Shawshank and digging my way out. But after three days, the pin hit stone. Couldn’t dig another inch.

Looks like this cell is underground—no wonder there’s not a single window.

I was discouraged, but soon perked up. Every day when the guards brought food, I’d go to the bars and try to fish for info.

"Officer, hey, what time of year is it now?"

The guard replied coldly, "Middle of July."

I tried to force a bright smile: "Hey, can you let me out to do some work?"

"Look, I’ve got hands and feet—wouldn’t it be better to let me do chores instead of just eating for nothing down here? I can sweep, mop, make coffee, cook, wash dishes, do laundry, fold sheets—anything. At the very least, you could put me on kitchen duty, I know a bunch of songs."

There are always two guards delivering food, one carrying the tray, one with a flashlight. This is the only time each day I see light—from one end of the hallway to the other, less than two minutes.

But as soon as the light is gone, endless darkness swallows me up again.

Terrified, I reach out and grab the guard’s sleeve.

"Officer, there’s not even a verdict—how long am I gonna be locked up?"

I can’t even tell what year this is, whether it’s reality or some fantasy, what the laws or politics are like.

"Officer, please talk to someone—see if I can get my sentence reduced for good behavior? I can recite the multiplication table, and I speak English and French. Are there any foreign prisoners? I can be a translator."

"I can’t make glass, but I can probably manage soap. Lard, lye, saltwater, sulfur, saltpeter—one to two."

"Officer, officer, don’t go! My family’s loaded. Ten grand if you get me out—hell, I’ll Venmo you."

The old guard sneered and smacked my hand hard.

"You think you can hustle me, kid? This is the third level—everyone here’s already lost the game. All the people here are former staff of the last governor’s mansion. The ones with money already ran."

"Let me tell you—the last governor is under house arrest by the new administration, his people are dead or gone. You’re all scheduled for execution after the autumn verdict. While you can still eat, save your strength."

I collapsed to the ground, full of grievance with nowhere to vent, grabbing the bars and losing it.

"Ahhh! Is there anyone alive out there!"

"Where are your bosses? Somebody do something!"

In the vast prison, only echoes answered me.

I gradually couldn’t tell dream from waking. Occasionally, I heard distant cries of pain, but no one answered when I called.

Small animals in the corner rustled, gnawing on straw, torturing my last bit of sanity.

I neurotically bit my fingertips, some bitten to blood. My mind tangled with all kinds of thoughts.

—I pressed my forehead to the cold bars, letting the chill bite through my skin, just to feel something.

—They say when life wants to test you, it breaks you first.

—If I die, can I transmigrate again?

—This bobby pin is a bit blunt—what if it can’t kill me? Maybe smashing into the wall would work?

—But in history, when a new president takes over, there’s always a round of pardons. What if they let us out tomorrow? Wouldn’t I have died for nothing?

—Natalie, don’t be a coward. Hang on a bit more, just treat it like a nightmare.

—Come on, universe, can you send me a living person, just someone to talk to?

As if hearing my call—

On the forty-ninth day, when the tenth tally mark on the wall had only one stroke left—ten tallies, each one carved deep and angry, just one stroke left to make it a full set—a new person came into the cell.

The air in that moment felt electric—like the pause before a thunderstorm lets loose. Even the rats seemed to freeze, listening. In that silent countdown, the universe finally threw me a bone, and I almost laughed in disbelief. For the first time in weeks, I felt a flicker of hope.