Living in a dystopian hell hole isn’t too bad.
For the most part.
That’s what I thought anyway. The horrible stuff only happened to other people, people who stepped out of line, people who didn’t follow the rules, people who challenged the wrong things.
It’s cognitive dissonance of course. I knew deep down that when someone I knew went missing, it wasn’t because they deserved it. But it kept me straight, kept me careful. And the more I deluded myself that my own actions were self-preservation, the more careful I became.
It didn’t work.
They came for me.
That was the charge.
And they could prove it.
In sealed documents, that I wasn’t allowed to see, and the court never actually asked for. They didn’t even let me present a defence. They just moved straight to sentencing. That’s when the real horror finally hit me.
I’ve been in this room for weeks now. There’s air conditioning, gourmet meals, luxurious furnishings.
And it’s hell for one very simple reason.
What they’ve designed, my punishment, for literally doing nothing, is cruel, and entirely unusual.
I can’t stand it anymore.
Over the speakers, twenty four hours a day, seven days a week, without pause, without mercy, starting from the beginning, they are reading all my tweets back to me.
Fifty years of them.
In a flat, monotone voice.
And the worst bit, the bit that makes me curl up in a ball in the corner and scream to drown out the noise, is when they describe the Gifs I used.