For some reason, the Christmas song, The Little Drummer Boy, comes to me and I run over the drum beat in my head. I know that it goes somewhere and doesn’t just end after a few notes, but where I have no idea.

After I recovered somewhat in the infirmary, they transferred me to Massachusetts and put me into solitary confinement.

It’s apparently for my own good since I’m somewhat of a celebrity and they are worried that I might not make it to trial.

But solitary isn’t what it’s cracked up to be, and it’s not really cracked up to be much.

I’m entitled to one hour of outside time but I can only be out there when no one else is.

There are a few of us in solitary and the guards don’t always take us outside. Someone’s supposed to oversee the schedule, but it’s not like we’re in any position to complain.

When I first got here, I counted down the days by marking them on a piece of paper but then I got sick.

It was just a cold, but with my weakened immune system, it took me almost a week to recover and after that I didn’t care about keeping track of days anymore.

Who gives a fuck anyway, right? I’m just another loser that the state has locked away.

All I can do in here is wait.

Wait and go through various stages of grief.

Last week all I felt was anger but now all I feel is apathy. It’s like it doesn’t matter what they’re going to accuse me of next or what they’ll do to me because I’ve already lost the one thing that I ever cared about; Olive.

But as soon as my thoughts come back to her, a spark that I didn’t even know existed ignites somewhere in the back of my mind.

I have to fight to get out of here, if for no other reason than Olive.

I didn’t do this.

I did a lot of bad things but I didn’t kill David or Nina and I can’t go down for murders I didn’t commit.

But mostly, I can’t let them put me away and have her believe them.

“Do you?” I ask. “Do you believe them, Olive?”

I wait for her to answer, but she doesn’t.

“Please don’t. Please remember who I was. Please believe me.”

Tears start to well up in the back of my eyes but they emerge as anger as my fists collide with the pillow.

I take my anger out on it, flattening it beyond anything that’s useful.