I am imprisoned in a cube. By whom and for what crime I know not. I don't even know how I arrived here. The only thing I know for certain is that this place is torture made into a tangible form. The cube that is my prison seems to be perfect, with all the walls, the floor, and the ceiling being the same, as far as I can tell. I have no measuring tool, so I use different parts of my body as a replacement. The height, width, and length is small enough for me to stand up and touch the ceiling without stretching too much, making for a cramped domain. The cube itself seems to be sculpted out of a solid piece of material. There are no seams and no sharp corners; the intersections between walls, floor and ceiling are filleted to have a smooth transition between all planes of the cube. The material the cube is made out of feels like marble, with its hard and polished feel, but is opaque. The light that fills my prison emanates from every pore of it, as if produced by the strange material itself. The light is incessant and maddening, never dimming or extinguishing itself. Sometimes, I feel as if the light is from the sun trying to free me by melting me out of this place like a big block of ice, but the light is different somehow. The light is a bright white glow that emits no heat and creates absolutely no shadows. The light never changes so I cannot determine the exact duration of my captivity. Never knowing when night is, I fight to stay awake until I pass out from exhaustion for l fear I will miss my only chance for escape. One of the most mysterious things is that I never eat. I never get fed by my captors, but I never grow hungry. I can't understand how this can be, but I have not eaten in the two years I think I have been here.

The aspects of my confinement are tugging at my psyche. I can battle that part of it by keeping my mind occupied like measuring the walls for example, but the part that is tearing me apart is my dreams. I should call them my nightmares. Every dream I have had since being in this place has the same theme. In my dreams I witness the final breaths of strangers being snuffed out by violent acts. The first time I fell asleep in my confinement I had terrible visions. It seemed as if I had awoken in an alley. When I stood up I thought to myself what a strange dream I had. I looked around and figured I must have blacked out after a night on the town. As I walk down the alley towards home I heard I muffled cry. I followed the noise behind a dumpster. Behind the receptacle of waste I found an evil scene. I found a woman in the act of being raped by two men. One of the men held the woman's head down with his hand over her mouth while the other was ripping off the woman's clothing. I screamed at them, but they did not even flinch. The woman did not even try to look at me. I rushed towards the struggling melee with the intent to club the assailants with my bare hands. As I jumped on the men, my adrenaline pumping, it was like hitting a brick wall. I fell back away from them a little stunned. I grabbed the closest guy to me around the neck; he was the one kneeling above the woman holding her down, and I tried to yank him off her with all my might. The man did not budge. The feel of this person was impossible. He felt as if he were made of granite. They all did. It was as if the scene I was witnessing were of moving statues playing out a real life snuff film. I ran out of the alley to find help. All the people I encountered were the same; moving statues that would not or could not acknowledge me. I ran back to the nightmare to try and stop the assault again, but had the worst luck because as I arrived for my third attempt I witnessed the execution of this woman. The first time for anything is memorable --first kiss, first car, first love-- but witnessing your first homicide is something that eats at you and consumes all of your thoughts. It is one of those first occurrences that you wish could be forgotten. I can still see the look on the woman's face as her neck was being air conditioned (humor is sometimes the only way to battle these thoughts). The strange thing is that as her eyes were dimming from the loss of her life fluid it seemed as if she could see me. Her eyes locked on mine for an instant before they were completely off. Then I awoke again to find myself back in this prison. The dream was so real. I could smell the filth of the alley. I could smell the sweat of the two murderous scoundrels. I cannot tell if this is the reality or if this is the dream. I do know that this is the one constant, after every act of violence I see, and over the two years I've seen a lot. I always return to this place. In my two years here, I've seen every conceivable act of murder imaginable. I've awakened into my dreams in far off places where whole villages were being wiped out because of their religion or ethnicity. I've seen people consumed in fire, thrown in front of moving trains, thrown off buildings, shot, stabbed, axed, bludgeoned, drugged, drowned, starved, and strangled. The worst is always the women being sexually assaulted. They seem so fragile and helpless. I get so angry that I can't help but try every time even though I know it will have no effect.

The horrific scenes witnessed by me are ripping me apart from the inside. I can't battle against what I don't know about. Everything about my captivity is an enigma. I still haven't completely figured out what is reality and what is dream. I have thought of ending my existence, but two things keep me going through with it: I have always thought that suicide is the last refuge for the weak and that I have no means to take my own life. I have nothing in the cube, and I don't have the strength or ability to pick up anything in my dream-reality world. I've tried in an attempt to attack some assailant.

This is my last attempt to retain some of my sanity. I hope that this will also help guide future prisoners of this cube. If not to escape, then to cope. If this does not help me, then I am doomed to a life of psychosis, watching the psychotic kill the innocent.
 

This was inspired by a class discussion of the Catholic beliefs about Heaven, Hell, and especially Purgatory before we read Hamlet. These are my thoughts on the matter of purgatory and the ghosts produced by it. I originally had a lot more stuff written about where he gets his nutrition and how the last thing he remembered before the cube was leaving a bar drunk and driving home. I ended up removing those things because of length and a desire not to preach.