A Prisoner of (Un)Conscious

Dear Friends,

I write to you from the darkness of my prison cell. I have smuggled this letter to you, written in crayola washable marker, on a scrap of a fabric that I quietly tore from the single sheet I am given. I scribbled furtively by nightlight. It has been carried on the backs of camels and secreted in the jackets of Bedouins over rocky and unforgiving terrain. I hope you may be of help.

My situation here is a desperate one. After 514 days of freedom, it has all come to an end. Ten days ago there was a coup d'état. The government of my youth was replaced by another, surely unconstitutional, dictator. This brazen move was foretold the week before by a pamphlet distributed throughout the land and called, prophetically, Linnea’s Sleep Book. Charmed by the pictures, I ignored its message. I now see my folly.

I have been imprisoned here for ten days. On the night of my arrest, I cried. I screamed. I howled at the guards. I finally fell asleep, exhausted by my efforts. The guards were unmoved. The second night I knelt in supplication, bouncing and making a repeated squeaking noise with my bed springs. Again, the guards watched impassively. On the third night I attempted to engage them by patting them through the bars of my cell and rubbing their shoulders. Nothing.

Mine is but a single cell, only a few feet long and two feet wide. I sleep on a single mattress, with no pillow and no blanket. A single sheet protects me from the plastic mattress. A single light bulb burns through the night. I sometimes hear the cries of the other prisoners, although the guards attempt to block out their pleas through the constant use of a “humidifier.”

Twice a day I am released from my cell. I am allowed regular exercise, although rarely outdoors. The recreation facilities are ample, and some entertainment exists—mostly in the form of propagandist “ABC” videos. I am allowed to speak with the other prisoners. We are sometimes transported to other facilities, but never allowed to wander on our own.

The food here is vile, as you would expect, with much emphasis on oatmeal and vegetables. We are allowed to bathe once a day, but then must return to our prison garb, which looks and fits like pajamas. Before bed I am securely wrapped in a fleece contraption. Unable to work the zipper, I must succumb to the straightjacket. It is most dispiriting.

I pray that you can do something to help my desperate situation. Perhaps Amnesty International or the Red Cross could be persuaded to provide assistance?

While I await your reply, I have begun a hunger strike. I have eaten nothing today but a single crayon.

Yours in Hope,
Linnea