I've been locked up for 264 days.
I have nothing but a small notebook and a broken pen and the numbers in my head to keep me company. 1window. 4 walls. 144 square feet of space. 26 letters in an alphabet I haven't spoken in 264 days of isolation.
6,336 hours since I've touched another human being.
"You're getting -cellmate- roommate," they said to me.
"We hope you rot to death in this place. For good behavior," they said to me.
"Another psycho just like you. NO MORE ISOLATION," they said to me.
They are the minions of Reestablishment. The initiative that was supposed to help our dying society. The same people who pulled me out of my parents' home and locked me in an asylum for something outside of my control. No one cares that I didn't know what I was doing.
I have no idea where I am.
I only know that I was transported by someone in a white van who drove 6 hours and 37 minutes to get me here. I know I was handcuffed to my seat. I know I was strapped to my chair. I know my parents didn't bother to say goodbye. I know I didn't cry as I was taken away.
I know the sky falls down every day.
The sun drops into the ocean and splashes browns and reds and yellows and oranges into the world outside my window. A million leaves from a hundred different branches dip in the wind, fluttering with the false promise of flight. The gust catches their withered winged only to force them downwards, forgotten, left to be trampled by the soldiers stationed just below.
There aren't as many trees as there were before, is what the scientists say. They say our world use to be green. Our clouds use to be white. Our sun was always the right kind of light. But I have very faint memories of that world. I don't remember much from before. The only existence I know now is the one I was given.