Dear diary

Made sure to walk around slowly, knocking just about anywhere I could knock on the wall. Didn’t hear any hollow spots.

It’s like I’m completely surrounded by brick walls on all four sides. Except the walls aren’t actually brick.

I don’t know what these walls are made off. My best guess is that they’re concrete or stone (or hell, even steel. I don’t know what walls are made off these days) with plasterboard on the insides.

Bright, eye-bleeding white plasterboard everywhere.

Well… almost everywhere.

There’s a spot in the wall where the white isn’t quite as eye-bleeding. It’s looking more like a slightly grayer hue.

It kinda looks organically formed, the same way a spot on the wall forms where water crops up and starts breeding mold.

It’s a small spot on the side opposite of my bed. Right in the upper corner.

It’s probably nothing spectacular, but I feel like it’s worth noting anyway. If anything this teaches me this godforsaken room isn’t being kept well.

That being said, the fatigue of screaming and examining the room for what felt like hours on end is getting to me.

I don’t know how long I’ve been awake already, or how long I’ve been here. The passage of time isn’t something I can keep track of anymore.

There’s no daylight to help me with that, and there’s no sign of a clock anywhere in this damn room.

What I do know, however, is that I need sleep.

Let’s hope tomorrow is a better day.

A less hopeless one, perhaps.

Hope is all we can do, diary.

Maybe when I wake up this, I’ll be next to my husband again… Just maybe…

Goodnight.