The Blood Painted Cage

The room was quiet and faintly glowing from the midday sun. I sat at the old desk that was littered with paper, pens and other utensils. I was comfortably leaning on my elbows on the available space on the surface as I stared out of the closed murky window at the misty world outside. My eyes were heavy and ached. I was exhausted but could not sleep. Sometimes the day meant awake to time me still thus keeping the sleep away. I sighed lightly. He would be unimpressed if he found that out.

I needed something to do, to get all the jumbled thoughts out from my head and force them into some sort of order. It might allow me to sleep.

My eye caught hold of the small book Viorel had given me. Write in it when you cannot speak, he had told me. Words, both spoken and written, help when you are feeling depressed or need to straighten tangled thoughts.

I smiled weakly and pulled it over while grabbing one of the available pens. I thought for a moment with the ballpoint hovering over the page of the empty book before I pressed it down and began to write, letting my feelings flow and release them from my heart, scribbling down everything that had happened in an attempt to work out who was trying to kill me and why.