First entry, approx early May
I have become very good at catching flies. It was clever of me to put a little meat on the window sill to lure them close enough to grab. My stomach growls like a mad animal, but I do not mind sacrificing the meal. In fact, I'm happy of the excuse not to eat the meal, for the food they give is not fit for dogs; hard bread with blue mould creeping over it, water that smells and tastes of rust, bits of meat that are both burnt and bloodied at the same time.
For two days I have woken to the melody of buzzing wings. The insects flock to the rotting meat between the second and third bar of my window and feast for a moment before I shoot my hand through the bars and pluck them from the air. At last count I had sixty-three. How many flies would it take to give me the life of another human?
My cell stinks of filth like a pigpen, so I do not mind the smell of the meat rotting, though it makes me a little hungry. No matter, I have plenty of little winged snacks should the hunger become too much. I shall have to eat them some time to keep the master happy- and anyway, as I have said, they are far better than the meals in this damned place!
The Stoke man is gone, finally. I wish the blasted guards hadn't came so quickly, he'd have been a far better offer for the Master. He had plenty of blood in him, I must say. Dyed the light-yellow floor padding burgundy with it. The cells smells of the blood now, too, as well as drains and rust and human filth- a result of my predecessor, I believe, or perhaps his predecessor. Imbeciles(idiots?), inebriates, lunatics. Any of those could have been responsible. Whoever he was, he managed to rip padding from the wall.
But anyway, the blood- the life!- reminds me of my purpose here, and I will suceed. I will make good on my promises, and the Master will make good on his.