At first, Light is furious.
He's guilty, and he's forgotten it, and he believes in his own innocence with a child's fervour. The cell is concrete, and there are no windows, and he's underdressed, so all his body heat leaches away. The shivers sink into him like despair; he's never been so cold for so long. He's dependent on Aizawa for the tiniest things - food, sleep, the toilet; he might just remember the humiliation until he dies. By the end of each day, he can't feel his hands behind him; visions of them turning black and peeling away, tumbling to the floor like dried-up scabs.
And the cell is silent. He exchanges words with Aizawa a few times a day, but that's all. The rest of the time, he's alone with his thoughts, with the patchwork memories he forces to make sense. Except for that voice, L's voice, which interrogates him over the speakers at intervals Light is certain are irregular. The questions are always the same - or rather, they aren't questions at all. They're statements, one after the next: entirely reasonable-sounding explanations of Light's guilt, of Misa's guilt. Of how Light chose to be in his situation, so it must be in his interests, since he is, after all, Kira. Sometimes L wakes him to question him. Day and night have quickly ceased to have meaning.
On the thirty-third day, Light watches a spider build a web in a high corner. The next morning Aizawa returns with a cloth and crushes it. Light misses the little thing; it had been something to watch. He suspects that was more than half the point of removing it.
By the forty-ninth day, Light is someone else entirely. He's forgotten how to think clearly, how to mask his hopelessness and terror; he's going to be here until the day he dies, scapegoated for someone else's crime. All he can do is focus on Kira, and L, who are both responsible for him being in this cage. All he can do is try not to go out of his mind. As he listens, the speaker clicks, and L's voice begins again. The questions are always the same.