Over the past few days I have asked a few friends what they think life is like for Hillary Clinton right now. Of course this is a hypothetical question, since they don’t know, but it is sort of an interesting idea to let your mind wander and wonder what life is like inside Casa Clinton; not just inside the actual house, but inside her actual head. Caution: we are entering an unsafe and scary space.

Let’s start with the outside of the house. I’m sure it’s heavily guarded with Secret Service and private security. I see her home being heavily fenced in with a guard tower, with active patrols going on hourly. There are cameras on every wall and tree. No one is allowed in, including Bill, unless they have been pre-approved days in advance. This means Bill is never allowed in. I’m not sure why I have imagined a laundry truck on the premises, but I do. I see a cook smoking a cigarette, while sitting on a concrete stoop. It’s all so quiet, unbearably quiet; it’s isolation at its worst and we haven’t even gone inside her house or her head.

Inside I see pictures turned over, and mirrors covered up. I hear no sounds as the televisions have been unplugged. I see a picture of Bill over the fire place with knives piercing through. I see a doctor and a nurse looking over charts, and a chef and his cook preparing a meal for one. The clock never moves because time stands still. Yes, maybe I’ve watched too many Twilight Zone episodes but this is what I see. Of course, the furniture is stunning; although, I’m not sure why, I imagine the couches all covered in that uncomfortable plastic. If one didn’t know better, this house could be mistaken for a mortuary or a high end prison.

As we make our way to her room, I see a guard standing outside of a locked and very heavy door; the code word to get in is “Huma.” I see a window on the door, so food and beverages can be passed in and dishes passed back out. Inside her room I see a vanity with no mirror, lots of prescription bottles and copious empty and, and not so empty, bottles of alcohol. I see her wearing pantsuit pajamas and no makeup. She is sitting at the foot of her bed staring, or just lying motionless on her back just staring at the ceiling.

I imagine her playing the tape over and over in her head. How did this happen, how did that guy beat me, not just that guy but the guy before him too. I did my service and I sacrificed everything. What in Satan’s name went wrong? What could I have done differently? Should I have campaigned more in those small towns? Should I have not embraced all those celebrity endorsements, who doesn’t take political advice from celebrities? Maybe I should have divorced Bill years ago, dammit it’s all his fault.

Satan, why, oh why, did I call 30 million people a basket of deplorables? I meant it, but why did I have to say it? Who cares about servers — Satan, what is a server? We made a deal, I gave my soul to you, what happened to our damned deal. I stayed married to him. I did what you told me to do and I hurt anyone that tried to hurt us. I just don’t get it. The polls said that Obama has a high favorability rating and all I was trying to do was keep the status quo. Could the polls have been wrong?

I don’t see tears coming down her eyes, just a vacant million-mile stare. I don’t see her tormented, as in all good Twilight Zone episodes, by those she has hurt. Rather, she is tormented by those that she feels hurt and wronged her; always the victim never the perpetrator.

To quote the Eagles, “Your prison is walking through this world all alone.” Whether or not this is just my own imagination, there is a harsher reality. Hillary is already in prison, and not just prison but her own solitary confinement. There are no conjugal visits. There is no one playing in the yard. There is no laughter or enjoyment, how could there be. So what will a trial do, other than maybe make her a martyr. So here is the deal in the spirit of Thanksgiving. Let’s not pardon the old bird, but, let’s give her a stay of execution. Let’s make a deal: you stay away from us, we will stay away from you. Do any of you truly want to hear her voice again at Congressional hearings, or really, ever again? But if we hear a peep from you or your demented husband, or your freaky pal Huma, or any of your satanic posse, all deals are off the table. So to all those who truly still want to lock her up, I get it, but I’m pretty sure she’s already there.