I am bound to a chair, gagged with a foul-smelling probably-drugged scrap of rough cloth that is scratching a rash onto my upper lip and most of my lower face. I am alone in the tiniest room that honestly feels like a wooden crate. The only light I have is the light coming from the screen of this computer, and a miniscule barred window about half a metre above my head. I would stretch to see the outside world, but my bare feet are glued and bound to the floor under the table in front of me. When they put me in this position, they told me I had to type. I didn't understand, and for a few hours I refused. No way was I going to be doing what those kidnappers told me! After a while, The Man rolled his dark, mysterious eyes and clicked on a program icon on the desktop, which lit up with several options. I could either watch my mother, my father, my younger brother, or my elder sister, who had somehow been placed secret cameras and microphones on. I grimaced at the thought of someone stalking my family, and the thought that I might have to watch The Man's men put them into danger. After a while, I lifted my trembling hands, and started to type. The first few words I wrote were gobbledy-gook and made no sense, and I didn't know what I was supposed to be typing about, but now I've got into the swing of things I think I know what I'm supposed to write about.
My life, and what brought me here.
