A Thousand Names

I was around the age of 8 when I was ripped from my mother arms. The man that took me didn't say anything to me, just carried me away. I remember crying out for my mother, but she watched me leave with without even the smallest hint of trying to stop the men.

I passed out.

When I came to I was in a room. There was bars and a door that was always locked. There was a little bit of light coming from a hole that was in the ceiling, but I couldn't make out where I was. I was on a small bed in the corner of the cell-like room. In the other corner, there was two mops and a bucket. Something about that corner didn't make me feel too good.

I'm scared.

I got up to yell for help screaming at the top of my lungs, crying, throwing a fit.

No one came.

I can't tell how long it has been since I have been in this room, but every now and then people will come. Sometimes they came into the room I use to try and tell that that "I'll be good. I won't be bad. please let me out"

But it all happens to fall on deaf doors. The only response that I could get from the people would be physical.

They hit me.

Sometimes I can see a woman out of the of the corner if my eyes standing in the darkness from beyond the bars. She brings me great relief and sadness.

I wonder who she is.

I had a food bowl and a jug of water that they filled if they could remember. Most of the time the food bowl is filled with the leftovers that the animals didn't even want. Soon I grew out of the clothes that I was in. my body is covered in sores and wounds.

One day someone came to the room I call home and started talking to me. I hid in the corner covering my ears. The noise was so foreign to me that it scared me to the point of insanity. The man hated the fact that I wasn't listening to him that he opened the door and beat me to the point where I was beginning to feel numb.

"Listen, kid. Yours trapped here for everyone else's happiness. You will have no joy in your life. You will live solely to suffer for all."

I couldn't do anything but lay there as I fade in and out of consciousness.

Every so often a man will come in an tell me more things about what's happening. I still hid in the corner of course but I forced myself to listen. This time he told me my age.

I'm 12.

The next time that he came he told me that I was undercity. I began to enjoy the man that came every day. Slowly as he explained more things I can tell that he was beginning to pity me. It was bringing some joy to my life.

The last time the man came and visited me he wasn't alone. I could tell that it was the lady that cause relief, but something about this time made me feel great fear. I tried to tell the man that someone was there but when I opened my mouth no noise came out. Even if I wanted to talk to him he shushed me anyway.

The man didn't show up again for a long time. Not till another man showed up with a bag and opened the door. He went over to where the mops were and set the bag on the floor. Out of curiosity, I looked up from behind my knees. The man grabbed something out of the bag and mounted it on the mop. When he turned around he had a smirk on his face. 

He was very pleased with himself.

When I had the courage to look up from behind my knees again I was greeted by the man that told stories.

His head was mounted on the mop.

I screamed for so long that I'm sure I no longer have a voice. That corner haunts me to this day. His mouth hangs open due to the decomposing of his head. His lips were once sewed shut. It stinks but I can't tell over the smell of myself.

Sometimes people would come and visit me but they didn't say anything. Sometimes I can see a switch change in them like they knew what they had to do after seeing me. Often going into a zombie-like state. They never came back.

I can feel myself slipping away. They haven't fed me in so long I can count my own ribs. Its kinda funny some of them have little divots in them like some of them are missing bone.

I use the last bit of my strength to lift the bed. There were thousands of names on the floor. Using my own blood from still open wounds, I wrote my name. I then laid the bed down and drifted off to a never-ending slumber.