I don't know why I'm here. I would ask you, but you're merely a spectator. The thin line of imagination and reality is what separates us, and the distance between our two worlds is strikingly obvious. Even if you did know why, I'd be dead before you could even find a way of reaching me.
It's clear from my position in all of this that these people aren't new to this game of cat and mouse. They've done it before, they're experts in their craft, and they're professionals. For you that means no way in. For me, no way out. It's almost like being enclosed in the centre of a maze. Think about it.
I guess this is what happens when you sign your life away on the dotted line; when you're forced to spend the rest of your life like a patient at the psychiatric hospital, where you're the only person with multiple personality disorder who appears to be reasonably sane, and where you're sworn to secrecy in order to protect Her Majesty and her people.
I can't tell you where I am either; but the room is large and there's an overwhelming stench of damp. It's clear the window hasn't been open long, but I can't recall ever moving from this spot.
I feel like I should make the effort to take an interest in my surroundings, to see just how much I can figure out from a few glances and walks around the perimeter of the room, but there's something about my surroundings that keeps me rooted to the spot, hesitant to move and make it clear that I'm now conscious and mobile.
There's something about this whole situation that screams out 'organised.' I'm not tied down by ropes or handcuffs; I have freedom to wander safely within the confines of the walls. I'm sure if I mustered the energy to stand up and head towards the door I'd find it unlocked and insecure, just as I am able to clearly see there are no bars on the open window, an easy route for escape. It's tempting, but I feel inclined to sit this one out and see just how organised my captors really are.
TBC.