(JARED)
When they didn't take me out of my cell for a few weeks, I knew my time was up.
Or maybe it was a couple of months. I'd long since stopped bothering to scratch marks into the walls of my cell —or into my own flesh, since I healed too quickly and the entertainment value of hurting myself paled after a while.
There'd been that time a while back…sometime, in the past…When I hadn't healed. When I'd clawed my own arm and then watched, glazed and still too sedated to care, as the blood didn't stop welling up. That had been after one of the trips to the lab.
And that had lasted for a few weeks. Maybe.
And now this had lasted for a few weeks, maybe, the guard only opening the door once a day to slide in some food and maybe a sliver of soap or a roll of toilet paper, and then slamming it again without saying a word to me.
