The conditions are harsh but bearable. I grow accustomed to the strange, brutal rules. Feeding and sleeping privileges are not denied when the rules are not infracted upon. The forced labor, varying day to day from taking care of dirty dishes and spills I do not recall creating to venturing into the cold November morning on a quest for Baked Lays & a Diet Coke, has grown so familiarly routine as to almost become comfortable. Only the occasional rapes still break my spirit, but if the merciful pattern holds, they will continue growing fewer and farther in between. If I can keep up the good behavior, I may be up for parole in a decade or two. If not, I am non-the-less comforted by the sweet, soothing inevitability of death. Since this option only requires an ax and an alibi, I am already half way there.
Love and regards to everyone on the outside, ~Yuliya's better half