ID# 93461

Day 630 of my captivity. I’ve come to realize this is not a prison but some form of opportunistic concentration camp. They neglect no race or creed but seek to dominate any within the compound. They tease us with inescapable glass walls so that we me stare freedom in the face each day, yet never reach beyond the pitted and shoe polish adorned cells.

  As they begin the daily parade of interrogators sent before me each day I begin to suspect they are trying to wear down my mental stability. What seem to be perfectly lucid strangers delve off into unseemly and unpredictable fits of idiocy. I am subjected to screaming tantrums, bouts of inconsolable grief and anguish, pretentiousness, sarcasm, elitism, slander; a steady cavalcade of emotional torture all while obligated to maintain courteous composure in scripted responses that never change despite the variety of situations that arise. This can only be a form torture designed to test and break down my sense of self. Perhaps the most disturbing realization is I believe it is working.I am rewarded for my benign robotic behavior each week with a piece of paper with my name on it and some numbers. I’ve been conditioned over time to appreciate and even desire these numbers. Oh, how I wish there were more of them. 

Perhaps the cruelest act taken by the oppressors is in giving me a brief respite each day; time enough to nearly pull myself back together. Just as I begin to regain a semblance of my former self I am thrust back into the berating stream of sycophants, firmly planted in wait for more verbal water boarding. Delving still further into the sadistic nature of the oppressors, I am forced to document each encounter, taking the verbal assault and then recording it verbatim to ensure maximum retention, thusly ensuring I fully understand the spectrum of my piteous existence.  Need I mention this allows for the most vicious of these encounters to be readily retrieved so that I may relive them at the oppressors’ leisure?

 Unbeknownst to my captors I have broken through and established communication with the outside world through my documentation device. This brief ray of hope was soon smothered as I found the only hope of deliverance would be to escape, only to be bound to yet another stint of monetary servitude, prisoner exchange if you will. Oh look, the man with the numbers is coming. Maybe it’s not so bad after all.