It is eleven on the morning of day three hundred and fifty five.
I stir in my cell, the bright-eyed, keen and utopian soul of a child rests soundly beside my body. She passed away when eighteen arrived and destroyed, when eighteen crushed the rose-tinted glasses and carried, like the slippery whisper of a final breath, the soft calm away.
I stare at four walls and count the things I have lost, the things that perished when the child was taken.