El depresión. Depression. Though I am no psychologist, and have never attempted to understand anything remotely connected to the realm of psychology, I believe that this term would be appropriate for my current state of mind. I lay in my bed, sometimes reading, drifting in and out of consciousness. I have done nothing else for the past two days. Michelle and my anniversary has come and passed, and I am still here. With nothing better to do than laying in the cold, hard, cot provided to me.

I have been left alone, as of yet, and for that I am thankful. Apparently my cellmate's lust for violence has been satisfied for the time being. I am around others so little, that I have not yet had any issues with other inmates. Damian, the guard, was right. Any privileges I might have had are shot to hell. I have been in my cell – nine feet by nine- for two days. I have not been allowed outside. For meals, I have been given the bare minimum in food- all served to me in my cell. I am given only what is necessary to keep me alive, to prevent a lawsuit.

I lay here, occasionally opening Michelle's book, but really, at this point, nothing helps. Nothing distracts. The book, too, is depressing. They just killed off the kid's goddamn chicken. I would not normally be so upset about the loss of a fictional poultry animal, but my emotions have been so overused, so raw lately, that the smallest thing is enough to make me tear up.

I don't want to live like this. I hate it, I hate it with a passion. I hate feeling vulnerable. I hate Jack's pity. I hate the other convicts. I hate most of the guards. I hate my bed, my cell, myself. I hate being without Michelle. I hate being thought of as a traitor. I can't live like this, not for twenty years. I can't spend twenty years doing nothing but waiting. Waiting for a visit, waiting for my meals, waiting for another beating. I can't live like this.

If it were not for Michelle, I would not be here today. True, I would not be in the prison, but I mean I would not physically be on earth. There are so many ways I could do it. I could use the Columbian's knife, steal it from the crack in the wall where he keeps it. I could break my neck against the bars. I could hang myself with the white sheets on the cot.

I shake my head. I know that I can not do that, not while Michelle is still on the outside, still waiting for me. She would feel ultimately responsible, I am sure. I do not want to let that happen. With every ounce in my body, I want to protect her. And if that means surviving a little longer than I would like, so be it. I will wait. I will wait until I am sure that she has moved on, until I know that my death will mean nothing to her. She is probably the only one that would still care at this point. Given a few weeks, maybe a few months, and she will find somebody else. I don't mind. I can not give her what she needs, and eventually she will find someone who can. Someone to look after her.

I close my eyes, thinking of Michelle now, and smiling to myself. I miss her more than anything I have been deprived of. I want her. I need her. I love her.