Tourist in hell. Sure. I don't own the place. It's not my house and I'm just passing through. I wake up, and they decide for me what I should do with my day and how I should go about it. They decide my schedule. My time isn't my own; it hasn't been mine since I set foot here again, when I thought she was losing her mind and needed constant attention. Turned out that she was not losing her mind, it’s just that she couldn’t care less about what I have to say. She would forget everything I told her about my life and my days. Wasn't important.

So today I was reminded that even though I feel like ending it all, I must remember that I’m just a visitor here, implying that it’s only temporary. To me, it feels like an eternity, like a prison sentence for a crime I don’t even realise I’ve committed. No trial, no lawyer, no defence. She wins. She always wins. As for me, I have to hold on to the fact that I’m just a tourist, and I have to keep looking for my passport so I can get out of here.