The Hidden Diary of Johnathan Ramsey | Teen Ink

The Hidden Diary of Johnathan Ramsey

July 3, 2012
By Staystrong13 PLATINUM, Royse City, Texas
Staystrong13 PLATINUM, Royse City, Texas
23 articles 27 photos 1 comment

Favorite Quote:
"What we call the beginning is often the end. And to make an end is to make a beginning. The end is where we start from." -T.S. Eliot

Hunger, betrayal, fear, all simple words, all full of agony. The people that are meant to protect you in this world are your parents, your family; there is no greater form of betrayal for a young boy who shall never again see the light of day.

Today is Monday… of is it Tuesday? I don’t know… everyday feels the same. Cold, painful, never ending. I have long since run out of tears to cry, forgotten how it feels to have the sun kiss my skin, my legs cannot remember how to walk and my voice is too tired to speak. Every inch of me hurts; screaming for relief of any kind. The mirror across the room shows a person who does not look like me. We have the same eyes, same crooked teeth, same color hair, but he has a pointy face. He has hollow circles that consume his eyes, his hair is growing in random patches, he is covered in filth that covers the floor around him, his clothes soiled by waste that lingers on his frail frame. He reminds me of people I have seen in a book that was about people taken to camps. I have come to accept the fact that that little boy in the mirror happens to be me. The people in the book died but some of them lived to tell their story. Just like those people, I am being punished for crimes I did not commit. Which will I be? Will I be the poor soul who suffers just long enough to tell my story? Or will I be fortunate enough to have this end? Maybe they will let me go and then I can see Mommy again.

My mouth begins to water as the smell of crispy fried chicken, creamy mashed potatoes and even yucky green beans fill my nose with bitter sweet goodness and torment. I would want nothing more than to nibble on the crunchy chicken, to feel the potatoes melt in my mouth and even chew on the gross beans. Our dog Spot gets to eat my share of our meals and I get to drink from this ceramic bowl that is filled with stagnant water from last night’s rain.

My tummy starts yelling again, the only way to silence it is to curl up, drink the metallic tasting liquid that is supposed to be clear and try to find food from my waste on the ground. Maybe if I think hard enough I can make this yellow water into a Thanksgiving feast. The taste of turkey, stuffing, cranberry sauce and potato casserole linger in my mind but my taste buds do not register the now foreign flavors.

The only thing I can do now is try to pass the time by listening to the crows, trying to remember how my mother looks. What color her eyes are, the sweet sound of her voice or how her laugh sounded. I cannot remember the sound of my little brother’s laugh. Do they ever think of me? Do they long to see me as much as I yearn to see them? Do they even remember my name? If they do could they tell me because I cannot remember it?

Laughter rings in his ears, sending shivers down his spine for that is the sound of the devil himself. Tears devour his sad eyes, burning his chapped cheeks as his silent cries form no audible words, “Mommy, where are you? I’m so tired, hungry and bruised, Mommy, Daddy doesn’t love me anymore, do you? Can you feel my tears? Can you hear me? Will this ever end? Mommy, please just tell me I will be okay, even if it is not true because there are so many things I cannot say to you. Mommy will you sing to me like you used to? Is it so wrong that I can no longer see your face or hear your voice? I love you mommy, I hope you love me too.” His vision begins to fade again as his please fade into the musty air and the day fades into another lonely night.

Elizabeth filled my bowl with more yellow tinted water and she left a stale piece of bread. She didn’t even give me an upward glance . she just threw down the bowl, almost shattering it, throwing water across the dirty floor, then she threw the rock solid bread at me then she left, not saying a word.

This room is the size of a shoe box and if I can’t get out soon I think I will lose my mind. This room used to bring me joy and comfort but now it is my prison. The birds seem to like to keep me company; they are my new best friends. How long have I been here? Does anyone know I am here? Do they miss me or am I forgotten like a rusty nail in Daddy’s shed?

A science experiment gone according to plan. He was just a pawn in their sick game of moderate genocide. He is just another case of horrid neglect, another Davontae Williams, another Stephen Hill, all unprepared to meet the same tragic fate, all disappearing without a cause.

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