Diary

Monday, April 25, 2011

Monday, April 25, 2011

I have written the word “HELP” in large, black letters on the front of the diary. The last thing I want is for someone to find this and not even open it. At least now they may be intrigued enough to read what I am writing.

            This diary is all I really have in here. Nothing else, except the bed and the pot for going to the toilet. The door to the room has a small hatch, about twenty centimetres high, along the bottom. This is where he passes in my food and water; and where I pass out the pot for emptying. I feel like his pet, like a bird locked in a cage. He passes me food and water to keep me alive; to keep me in this suffering for at least another day. It makes me feel sorry for Mia. If I get home I think I will leave her cage open and let her fly away if she wants to.

            All I get to drink is water. I broke the cup against the wall on the first day, so now he passes it through in a plastic bottle. For food he gives me dry bread in the morning. Later on he passes in cold soup, sometimes there is fruit too. Dinner is usually more bread with packets of ham or chicken, and sometimes more soup. It’s not very varied or extravagant but at least it’s enough.

I don’t know why he has given me this diary. Maybe he feels sorry for me or something. Maybe he wants to give me something to do instead of just sitting in here bored. If he felt that sorry for me then he could just let me go.

But why a diary? Why not a book to read or music to listen to? Maybe he wants to read what I have written. It could be some sick game he has, a twisted fantasy that gets him off. He likes to read his victims’ thoughts and know what they are feeling about the situation they are in. I bet he gets a thrill from knowing how afraid they are. Well, if you are reading this then I want you to know that you don’t scare me. You won’t win. I am stronger than you.

FUCK YOU

FUCK YOU

FUCK YOU

GO TO HELL