Making Hay

I’m shivering. Not feeling brave and defiant anymore. My jeans are filthy. There’s crap under my fingernails. I smell like onions and urine. I’m pissed and scared – is that possible? This room, whatever it is, is damp, moldy and remote. I’m outside, kind of.

Fucking government. Go after terrorists, you assholes. What the hell could I possibly do to bring you down? What… a few searches for “how to pick a lock” and “fracking” and I’m a person of interest? ARE YOU fucking KIDDING ME?

Guess I’m still a little defiant.

Six hours passed and I’m ruefully picking hay from my sweater. If I pick one piece at a time, time will pass. Pass without another painful interrogation. I still have no idea what they want. I mean, they say they want to know why I stole media. Why I stole software. Why I stole secrets.

I’ve always thought another incarnation might grant me the exotic life of an Aston-Martin-driving operative. But I’m just curious. The Internet is my brain. How could they know about the car, the mystery and intrigue, the deftly-fought gunfights with henchmen and bedfellows? What is it really…

I’m hungrier than yesterday. If I get out of here I’ll still be alone and hungry and cold. So escape is pointless. Now what? How do I find peace in knowing another beating is coming? Now fucking what…


Regulatory Professional
Age 44
Orlando, Florida, United States of America

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