I live in a house without windows or doors. For years and years, I’ve been in the dark. Merely a tiny pest in the shadows, crying for attention. Ever since I can remember, my life has been lamps, books, and food shoved through a tiny slot in the kitchen wall. I’ve tried to escape, taking sharp objects, digging through the wall, but all I find is dirt. Everyday someone slides a meal of an apple and a sandwich. This person doesn’t speak, just rings a bell when they bring me my breakfast, lunch and dinner. I think I’m about 11, eve learned everything I know from books and dictionaries. I used to spend my days trying to escape and worrying if id be in this house forever. After awhile worrying got old, why spend days and nights trying to solve the unsolvable. I read in one of my books that the more you dwell on something, the longer it will hold you captive as its prisoner. For most people that’s a metaphor, but for me its reality. Instead of a family, I have rooms packed to the ceiling with books and one outfit, I wear every day. I get baths and I was my one pair of pants and old t-shirt. The only reason I know how to speak is because whoever the gentleman or lady is that has me in here lets me watch old TV. I remember vaguely when I was just tall enough to reach my chin on the kitchen counter. I thought everyone lived in places like mine. I’ve heard so much about sunlight in books, they describe it as warm bright and that it gives you the feeling you could fall asleep to. The only thing close to sunlight is this pit is my lamps. Every day before I go to sleep, I usually write a letter to whoever is watching over me. It reads, “Dear Sir or Mrs., I’m feeling quite lonely down here. I don’t know my name or where I am. Thank you for the books and daily meal. Yours Truly, Hostage.” Every morning that little piece of paper is missing from the kitchen slot. Maybe one day when they think I’m ready, they’ll set me free. One day my name will be Katie or Ashley, not hostage.