Hope is a crock of shit!
I lie on the bed with my hands behind my head, teary-eyed. I can’t seem to stop crying lately. It’s been four days since I was locked in this room. At least I think it has. I have no way of knowing for sure. No TV. No radio. No cell phone, obviously. I think there have been four sunsets since I first spent the night here and it’s dark again now, so four days and soon-to-be five nights.
It’s been four days since I saw Dante. Four days since anybody uttered a single word to me. A housekeeper brought me some of my clothes and toiletries the first day. He wouldn’t let Sophia in here because he knows she would crack and offer me some kind of comfort. Whoever this new one is brings me three meals a day and two snacks as well as prenatal vitamins too. But she never speaks to me. I speak to her of course. I’ve tried being nice to her. Begging her. I’ve tried bombarding her with questions. Shouting. Threats. Crying. Nothing works. She’s impenetrable. Like a robot.
So all I have left to do is cry. And throw up. I throw up a lot. I feel sick all the time. I haven’t been able to keep any food down since yesterday morning, so I didn’t even bother trying to eat my lunch, afternoon snack or dinner today. They are all still sitting on the tray, untouched. Congealing. Like me. Or maybe I’m stagnating. I don’t know.
Perhaps I’m just going crazy.
The door unlocking doesn’t even make me lift my head now. I’m too tired.
The housekeeper shuffles into the room and places another tray of food beside my bed.
“Mr. Moretti says you need to eat,” she says quietly.
So, she has a voice after all.
“Mr. Moretti can go fuck himself.”
“It’s not good for the baby if you don’t eat.”
“Pretty sure it’s not good for the baby’s mother to be driven completely insane either, but no one gives a flying duck fart about that, do they?”
I keep my head turned away from her and hear her collecting the old trays of food, but she doesn’t speak again.
