Mr. Jay cares least of all. I’ve been alone with him in this room for an hour. Maybe two. Maybe three. There’s no clock, so there’s no way for me to be sure what time it is. After dinner, I think. I try not to guess what time it is. Time doesn’t matter anyway. You’re up when they tell you to get up. If that’s 3am or noon, it doesn’t matter. If you got to bed at 9 and they say rise and shine at 10, you get your ass up or you get the shit beat out of you.

Besides, time doesn’t pass normally here. I think it’s been hours, so it’s probably only been minutes. I think it’s been years, so I’ve probably only been here for months.

It’s better if I don’t think about it.

Most of what’s on my mind is that my stomach hurts.

It hurts because it’s full of water. Mr. Jay said to drink a bottle when we first came in. Then another. Then another.

It’s been hours and he keeps bringing in bottles to drink. I don’t know how many so far. All I can remember is that it was warm and tasted like plastic, like it had been sitting in a case too long. I can’t move from where I am. I can’t let my back rest against the chair. I have to sit on the edge of it. The stack of books in my lap. My legs stiff.

I have to piss and I know he wants me to piss myself. To hurt and ache. To be weak and pathetic. I hold it in though. Silently sitting perfectly still. Staring ahead and trying not to cry when the baton comes down on the books.

This is because of what happened at dinner, which was…

I don’t know what it was. Something one of the staff members didn’t like. Might just have been my face being my face. I can’t remember the details anymore. I’m not even completely sure I’m remembering the right dinner. All the days are starting to seem like the same day.

Maybe that’s what they’re trying to do. Fuck up our sense of time so badly that we don’t know what year it is, or month.

The joke is on those bastards. I know it’s the middle of the year because the room is hot. If it was fall or spring, the room would be freezing.

It’s sweltering now. Sweat drips down my back.

“I have to use the bathroom.”

“No you don’t,” he tells me and I close my mouth. I could scream. I could scream but then I’d be hit again.

“You need to answer the question correctly,” he tells me, his tone condescending.