Fifth Day

I did not have much sleep last night, and it annoys me. I know I have nothing to worry about and yet I keep going through the events of yesterday over and over in search of an explanation. Obviously, the questions themselves cannot have been important - I suspect they know everything they need to know about me already. They must have had other reasons for asking me about my name, my job, my telephone number… but what? What did they want to know? Whether I am willing to co-operate? Surely, that can’t have been it. They must know I am not stupid, and why would I lie about something that would take them less than a minute to check? Did they want to see how I am coping with being detained? Possibly, but I presume I am being constantly watched anyway. Were they checking how I would react when confronted with a person of apparent authority? Whether I would make a false confession of something and hope for release? Whether I would attempt an escape?

I am starting to think that the purpose of the questioning yesterday was just this. To make me ask questions. To make me wonder. It is strange how a simple, polite question about one’s name under certain conditions can trigger an explosion of doubt and other questions that are a thousand times more complicated. It strengthens me that I have come to this realisation, but it doesn’t stop me from asking further questions. Why do they want me to process the events? What is the purpose of these mind-games? I try and concentrate on other things; the low, monotone sound from the ventilation system, the barely visible cracks in the paint on the walls. Other than that, I am exposed to a minimal level of stimuli. Bare walls. Frosted glass. Clean floors. No smells. Monotone sound. I only have my thoughts and my questions.

I want something to change. I want someone to turn off the “repeat track” mode and allow the next one to go on. No one has yet told me why I am here, their reasons for detaining me or if I need to do anything. I am considering walking over to that CCTV camera with its lens constantly fixed on me, speak right into it and tell them that I know they are trying to play mind-games on me but that they are, in fact, plainly wrong in believing that I am a terrorist. But then again, that must obviously be what they hear from everyone, and I am not going to fall into the normal pattern. I am different. I am innocent. The physical walls of this room do not bother me much - but the lack of information and constant mental competition make me feel claustrophobic.