This leads to only one conclusion: I must have unconsciously swallowed the food. It is worrying that I can have done this without realising, but I daresay my body and mind are not as clear together as they used to be - this would explain a lot.
Was it laced with the memory drug? I search through my brain but everything is pain-sharp. None of my memories are missing, and I relax. It was just food. Jed must have left it there, perhaps wanting to draw out my suffering, not let me take the easy way out and starve.
And that is when I see it.
It is scattered all over the floor - ruby droplets rusted over time. How long have I been here? I mentally scream. I glance at my watch and the date throws me. It is three weeks since Jed left me - I have been here for seven. This blood …
Three weeks locked inside my own head, my own memories. Reliving the most painful parts of my life, and the happiest. Remembering the bad things, and the good. Recalling my enemies, and my friends. Have I really managed to spend three whole weeks without making any contact with the outside world? It seems so.
I look back at the blood. Where has it come from? I have forgotten all about my arm, the picture Jed carved there for all eternity. I look back at it. It is no longer bleeding - luckily, it has scabbed over. But my arm is sticky with the dry, brownish red substance, and I feel sick. As I thrashed around, locked in madness and memories, I have scattered my own life-blood around. How much has been lost?
It is impossible to tell, because much of it is absorbed into my clothing. I try to swallow the bile as I examine my stained skirt. If I ever get out of here, I will burn this.
Or maybe I will not.
And that is when all changes.
Because a shadowy form among the great mass of humans outside, barely visible through the one-way frosted glass, has just separated itself from the body of the crowd, and is coming this way. It comes towards this door. For a moment I think it is coincidence, but they try to peer through the glass, and I know they know there is someone in here.
I hear the click of something in the lock. Do they have the key? No, that is impossible. I saw Jed destroy it myself, twisting it up until it was just a piece of scrap metal. But did I? That is not possible. How would he have locked the door? Have I just imagined him doing that?
No, my visitor must have a lock pick. But how do they know I am here? That is a great mystery to me. I wait cautiously to see who it is, and then realise that I am still clutching my arm.
That is not all. I myself am in a dreadful state. My clothes are torn - they are just rags, and my body is clearly visible. My arm and right side are drenched in my own blood, which is also all over the floor and furniture. What will the Port staff say when they see the state this room is in? What will my mysterious visitor think when they see me?