The Man in the Jewlery Box. (3)

The third and final installment!
Yes, I am aware that this needs some major edits. Thanks so much for sharing.
I'll get to them. Probably not this week because I have a major paper due on Friday.
I hope you like it.
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I started counting the jewelry yesterday, made it somewhere around one thousand before the piles started to blur together and I lost track. The boredom started to kick in half past breakfast on that second day. I used to think I’d keep myself busy by people watching, but even the constant procession of new subjects can’t parry the ugly gray feeling’s descent. I feel a little like giving in to the small, jarring feeling in my left foot and having a panic attack, just for something to do.
My brain feels heavier than normal as I stretch out on a bed of gold spikes. At first it would take at least ten minutes to get comfortable among the jewels, but now I barely feel anything as I sprawl out. This suit they put me in doesn’t leave much skin exposed, but I can still feel the patches of irritated flesh objecting to this abuse. My hands have become permanently red and indented. It’s a safe bet that the rest of my skin looks the same, but I’m not sure I care to find out.
Luxury died two days ago when I started to smell and lose the ability to think clearly. The only things I am able to do hygiene wise are: a. use the restroom, b. brush my teeth, and c. wash my face. The towelettes are made of some sort of Parisian cloth, but this entire box is stunningly void of a razor. I can feel the tiny hairs starting to break ground and emerge onto my face, itching like hell. I’m being stabbed in the night by bracelets literally and in my nightmares, I wake up sweating and claustrophobic in a prison of red scratches. This suit is becoming unbearable and I’m afraid it’s stuck to me forever.
I’ve lost count of the days. It hasn’t been many, I know, but you’d be surprised how quickly a person can become mad.
It’s been at least a month when I wake up out of a particularly gruesome nightmare. The moon is fuller than it’s ever been, casting the snickering little beasts in a cold, bony light. I haven’t moved in hours upon hours and the only part of me that isn’t numb is my back.
New York is still alive, but I can’t really hear it, my glittering cocoon keeps me isolated from everything.
I try to turn over to stare up at the skyscrapers, but my arms are slick with sweat and my legs are all tangled in piles of thousand dollar necklaces. I finally wrench myself into a sitting position with every muscle screaming and rioting in protest. The gold before me isn’t glittering. It’s painted in splotches of O negative. So are my forearms.