My butt feels a thumping pain. I shift again, this time to my side. The seat I'm on is uncomfortable after six hours not moving. I blink, conscious of the stupidity of this decision I've made. Why am I still here? I close my eyes, and the heat of the small room suffocates me. There's no breeze. There's no noise. There's no comfort. I listen to the soft slowness of my own breathing for a minute, and the almost imperceptible sounds of the cloth shifting beneath me.
Suddenly, I'm up. The space I'm in is impossible to pace, too small for stretching out. I walk to the only door and push it open. The bug sounds assault me. The sunlight scorches. The feeling of dread grass on my feet overwhelms.
Why did I spend so long in a prison of my own design?
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