Hope

She opened her eyes to the little padded cell that had been her home for the past three years. A sudden wave of nausea swept through her and passed. She recalled the days when it wouldn't go. The first few days when all she could dream of was getting out of there. A distant dream… As the months dragged on, she realized that no one was coming to take her home. She was forgotten – an imperfect part that was hidden behind white walls, in shame of its ugliness.

She had lost all concept of time. The only time she got to see a clock was when she was reading in the library during the recreation hour. She only observed the day’s passing through her activities. Wake up, use the bathroom for 20 minutes, breakfast, group therapy, lunch, recreation, tea, more therapy, dinner and finally the slow march back to their cells. Their little padded prisons.

Today felt oddly different. She felt that she could walk to the door, push it open and leave. She turned her head sluggishly towards the door, looking for some sign that she could be right. It betrayed nothing. The worst thing about being imprisoned is that despite everything that happens, there is a tiny flicker of hope. All it does is open your mind to more blows and beatings and then open it a little more. It was this flicker that made her pull herself up and drag her body to the door. Her weak hands reached out to the handle and she tugged cautiously. Waiting for the click.

The door did not move.