Thenn0ra-8

A Letter in the Night:
          	
          	A dark, lifeless cell, whose only precious decoration was the letters I received from a teenage girl who eagerly shared the stories she wrote for me.
          	
          	I remember one night especially well. A snowy white owl landed in front of my cell in the darkness, a letter held firmly in its beak, watching me in silence. I took the letter from it and, as always, rewarded the owl with a small piece of bread before quickly unfolding the parchment. I wanted to know what she had written this time. I wanted to read more about the adventures of that young girl.
          	
          	But after all those years spent inside that cold, lifeless cell, my eyes had grown terribly weak. In the darkness of that night, I could no longer make out the words. It was torture. There was nothing to light the cell, and the black ink disappeared into the shadows. Reading that young girl's letters was the only joy left in my life—the only thing that kept that prison from feeling completely empty.
          	
          	That night, my curiosity over what the letter contained would not let me sleep. I simply lay on the cold stone floor, staring at the page until dawn, waiting for the rising sun to reveal the words that the darkness had hidden from me.

Thenn0ra-8

A Letter in the Night:
          
          A dark, lifeless cell, whose only precious decoration was the letters I received from a teenage girl who eagerly shared the stories she wrote for me.
          
          I remember one night especially well. A snowy white owl landed in front of my cell in the darkness, a letter held firmly in its beak, watching me in silence. I took the letter from it and, as always, rewarded the owl with a small piece of bread before quickly unfolding the parchment. I wanted to know what she had written this time. I wanted to read more about the adventures of that young girl.
          
          But after all those years spent inside that cold, lifeless cell, my eyes had grown terribly weak. In the darkness of that night, I could no longer make out the words. It was torture. There was nothing to light the cell, and the black ink disappeared into the shadows. Reading that young girl's letters was the only joy left in my life—the only thing that kept that prison from feeling completely empty.
          
          That night, my curiosity over what the letter contained would not let me sleep. I simply lay on the cold stone floor, staring at the page until dawn, waiting for the rising sun to reveal the words that the darkness had hidden from me.

Thenn0ra-8

The Adult I Talked To:
          
          I was about twelve years old when I had to attend one of my mother's parties, as I always did, and socialize with many people. One of the people I met was a twenty-eight-year-old man named Fyodor, who had traveled from Russia to attend my mother's party. He spoke to me warmly and kindly, showed a great deal of interest in what I had to say, and spent the entire party talking only to me.
          
          When everyone went to the dining hall for dinner, I suddenly felt someone press a cloth over my nose. I caught a strange smell, something like alcohol, and within moments my eyes closed and I lost consciousness.
          
          When I woke up, I found myself in a bedroom. The clothes I had been wearing that night were torn and damp, there were bruises on my body, and I felt a sticky substance on my face that tasted disgusting. I looked around the room and found a note on the bedside table:
          
          "It was a wonderful night, my dear Margaret. You are an extraordinary girl, and you will grow into an extraordinary woman. I hope you won't be upset with me for taking your first experience.
          
          With love,
          Fyodor"