February 22nd

Dear Diary,

It's been enough. I've just about had it here. The suspense of not knowing anything is too much to handle. I don't know when I'll get out of here, or if I'll even leave. I'm used to this life, but I want out. Everything that's happened so far in this place has formed thousands of planets around the stars of boredom and anxiety, and I just can't take it anymore.

     I wish I had updates on school or politics or anything outside of this hellhole. Instead I'm just writing to you. Sure, I draw on the walls and do the classic tallies-on-the-wall thing, but it's agonizing.

It's currently 7:27 pm, February 22nd, 2015. The metal walls echo each scratch of my pen on your paper, each footstep I take to get to my bed, each toss and turn at night. The haunting lock on the door is a constant reminder of the prison I'm stuck in. It's quite ironic, actually. They put me in here because they thought I was going insane, but I'll be going insane because they put me in here.

To keep myself occupied, I'm going to tell you everything I hear and see and feel and smell. Starting now

Cold tension in my legs from how I'm sitting, and a silent breeze creating a flow of goosebumps down my back.

Footsteps of a large man, steadily growing louder as they pass my room, only to fade out again.

The rustle of papers outside of my door, quick but noticeable.

The click of familiar heels walking down the hall. But instead of fading out, they stay at their volume. They stop right outside my door. The clicks seem all too familiar...

Of course. I'll write to you later, diary. I have to go face my mother.

Wish me luck,
Emma