Tonight I can’t seem to put my pen to my page. I suppose that I will write down all that I see. They truly hate when I do that, it gives them no enjoyment. . That makes me smile.
“Okay” I breathe to myself.
I see my window, again. It is very small, only a little bigger than a sheet of paper in length and width, and it is filthy. But now I have flowers to look at. I wonder, did they plant those flowers to hide my existence entirely? I used to be able to look at the stars at night, and get a small bit of sunlight during the day. Now it’s always dark. Except for when the sun is directly pointing at the flowers, their colors resonate throughout my room. It’s so beautiful in the midst of this terror.
I stand up from sitting in my corner; the walls grow cold as night time creeps across the sky. All the walls are, well they are four blocks of concrete. That is why I pulled my bed into the middle of my small room. I sink down to the concrete floor, where my bed mattress barely rises above. Everything here is small. I sit, staring out my window, waiting for the moon to reach high into the sky. Yesterday I found out that I could take the hinges off the window, I’ve finally yanked them loose, and I can just barely fit through the windows small frame. Tonight, at 12 AM, I am going home. And all the way, I’m going to watch the stars dance above me.
I remember once I wrote a few pages about how much I used to love and miss seeing the stars. It was a young female guard who took them to read them and laugh because of how personal they were. That’s why they always laughed; they are taking away part of you by denying you to be emerged in your passions as you once were. The woman read them at first with a cynical smile on her face, but as she read on, her smile faded and she looked at me with worried blue eyes and she began to cry.
“You just had a baby girl, didn’t you?” I asked her. She looked astonished and mouthed the word yes.
“Take very good care of her.” I said with a warm smile. She ran away, her eyes full of tears and sobbing. I got 10 lashes for those comments, and I never saw that guard again.
I’m not sure where I’ll go from here, which way I’ll take, or if I will ever make it out from wherever I am right now. Now it is almost time, time to make a break for the freedom of my home. I know that I am still in the states, because the guards are always complaining,
“How do Americans eat this filth!” One guard will exclaim.
“I would not feed this to my pigs.” Another would insult. They complained more than anyone I’ve ever heard, yet they ate like pigs. I think my captors are Russian. Their accents are heavy and they lead commander always smells of vodka. Though I’m trying not to be stereotypical.
Being below ground helps shield me from the extreme heat of the days. I think were near the south. It’s near the end of summer and it is still in the mid 90’s.
Here it is, it’s finally time! Time to return to my home and my parents in Atlanta, where the heat is bearable, the people are loving, and I can find a good home cooked meal on every street. That is something my stomach so desires, good, warm food. A whole year has been leading to this. I’ve dreamt of this since the day of my arrival here. Too many days have I spent planning, too many nights have I not slept not to attempt getting out of this hole I’ve been put in.
The guards are all asleep right now, though I only have a couple hours to get out and as far away as possible from here. A while after the mood fades from the center of the sky is when a guard stumbles around for a while, groggy and half asleep, checking to see if I’m still in my concrete cage. I wonder if there are others like me, held here against my will. I surely haven’t seen anyone else besides the guards, though I’ve heard some screams from what must be down the hallway. I can’t think about this anymore, I haven’t got the time. Tonight is my night, to live free or die trying, I must act now. I propped up my mattress against a cold wall, tucked my journal in my waistband, pulled the window off the hinges and climbed. I’ve never been so pleased with the rock-like texture of the mattress, it held up good under my weight and movement. I dragged myself up and through the window. I barely fit, though I am now much more skin and bones than I was a year ago. As I dragged my legs then feet through the window, I heard that disgusting mattress hit the floor. I smiled and looked up, what a beautiful view of the night sky I had! A night full of stars. By God I actually did it, I was free! I then remembered, I wasn’t home-free yet. As I stood up, I saw something that astonished me.
I saw a smurf blue farm house with 2 floors, pale yellow shutters and deck wrapping around the house. Also a large bay window that had hand-painted floral curtains that sealed the inside from sight. And there was a tire swing that hung from one of the willow trees that were set up in a long line that went all the way out to the back field behind the house. I felt as if I had the wind knocked out of me, I knew this house; I knew it well. I was already home. I climbed out of a window under my own house! How could I have been so foolish? I was closer than I ever could have imagined to home. But how could this be? This is where I lived my life, why have I been tortured and starved for a year right under my own house? How had my parents not known about this? What happened to them? Just as all these thoughts of them living the same as I had come flooding to my mind, a bright yellow light from that bay window broke them off immediately.
I saw a face emerge in that window, after a moment of looking I saw the face of my step-father. He was holding a gun and a smile I’ve seen many times over the past year. A smile that was seeking my pain, I turned toward the road and began to run. I ducked into the willow tree path to try and offer myself some sort of protection, I heard the front door open. The last thing I heard was a gunshot ring out, it was also the last thing I felt. I saw the red seeping through my lightly colored shirt, though it was quite dirty from wear, it had gained a new stain. The wound didn’t hurt as much as seeing that smile on his face, he was like my father. It began growing colder and colder the closer I slid to the ground.
My whole world has now died, ceased to exist. And now, here I am, clutching my journal now stained red in my blood, every page a bright crimson with the black words. Here I am, lying, dying along with my world.