I’ll never journal again, much less write another thing for anyone. All my personal thoughts were used against me. Evidence. Proof of my deep involvement. Brainwashed by a terrorist movement. The interrogators were probably right.
With every passing second between the jail and the questionings, I was reminded of my new reality. The Queen reluctantly agreed to let me go to trial. I heard she wanted to execute me herself. The feeling was mutual.
Reality. I hardly remembered the warmth of ...