7:24 to 7:40 sprint first

She ripped through her psyche trying to find the right words. It was all about words, sending hidden meanings in social media and not making waves. 

She had help from two sources. Neither did she know or trust  but she had to make a move. She would use both. She would keep the separate and she how it panned out. Providing the same information and hoping for the best. 

It was anathema to her this dishonesty. She had to stop seeing her actions as dishonest. A honest prison cell makes a mockery of her high minded principles. She would do anything. Everything she could to survive this. 

She thought of all the hero's she had followed on YouTube. The Micheal Baldwins and other American black speakers with scruffy hair and bellowed about truth and justice. 

She did not have the luxury of this. She need a pardon and she needed to get out. 

Every time she decided this was what she was going to do something reached out to her and pushed back. 

This is not you. This is not you. 

This must be me she shouted into her empty room. This most be here. She must be more than just this. 

She sat in the corner of her room under the dressing table, with the dust and mites from days of her incarceration. None had come to clean, it was empty as she felt. Who could she reach out to who would she selfishly put in danger? 

She hated begging. Hated begging with a passion. Hated degrading herself and putting herself in  positions of humiliation and scorn. 

But by choosing to her self had she not put herself in a position of humiliation and scorn. For being bold and scattered brained and indisciplined has she not brought the humiliation to her. 

This is not fair, why was she always fighting.  She was always fighting within herself. She had never tried. She was so sensitive so aware so scared of scorn. 

But it had not stopped her from declaring herself to all. It had not stopped the self destructive behaviour and harm she was still causing herself. 

I want a saviour. I want to be saved she cried out through parched throat. 

Her mother used to say to her, on the days her family had allowed them visits. No one will save you. Even as she her mother had tried to save her.

She beat the metal drum so hard that when it shattered the noisy chased the skin from her flesh and introduced a paralysing fear to her soul. Until this day. The fear ate at her. It ate at her. It ate her. 

She sat still in the dark and wondered what the point of it all was. She always wondered thus. And always got up eventually. 

She would take the postings, make screenshots of them and send them off and then it would begin.