Maseo Jones

The Waters of the Past

How long have I been here? Hours? Days? Time has always been…relative to me. Now it feels as if I’ve lost all sense of it entirely. Here in this room, these metal walls, time takes a different meaning. Seconds, hours, days, months; these simple concepts evaporate into thin air within these cold walls. Time is warped, transformed from words into questions. Time for Question 1; time for Question 2; 3,4, so on and so forth. And like any reliable clock, time inevitably resets itself with the repeat of the same questions. Why do they ask the same questions? Do they think my story will be any different? Do they think that if I give the same answers enough times, I’ll feel regret about what I’ve done? I only ever had one goal: to improve the health and living conditions of the forgotten and unfortunate. Why should I regret that?