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Drops of water fall from the ceiling of this dungeon I’ve been banished to. I couldn’t say how long I’ve been here. The last time I felt or even saw sunshine on my skin would have to be months, maybe years ago. I’ve been in here for a long time, that’s all I could tell you. In here, I have to feel around my chamber in order to find anything, my water bucket, my burlap “blanket”.
Essentially, I’m blind in captivity. Sometimes, I’m not sure whether or not my eyes are closed. The darkness overwhelms me either way, making vision a useless sense. The pitch black consumes me twenty four hours, seven days a week. If that’s still how time is counted, I have no idea at this point.
I keep telling myself that one day, I’ll wake up to sunshine in my bedroom back home. Light will be flooding through my window and I’ll have to squint my eyes to see. Someone will shout, “Rise and shine,” from the kitchen and my day will start. I wish I had the opportunity to squint. In this dream, I’m free. I’m free of my dungeon, free of this daily routine of boredom and isolation. But it never lasts. Soon, the disgusting ceiling water hits me in the head, and I’m suddenly awake.
Despite my wishes though, I always know while dreaming that it isn’t real. The false hope envelopes me every time, but I always know, subconsciously, that I’ll wake up again and be in my prison.
I couldn’t tell you how I even got here, one day, I just woke up on this floor. I couldn’t tell you why I’m here, or give you a valid reason, or even make one up. I think that makes it all worse, not knowing. If I commited a crime, I would be in here for a reason, serving a sentence in my personal prison, facing a punishment. But, no. I’m kept here, possibly as a muse for some psychotic creep, possibly serving time for somebody else’s mistake.
Who knows, who cares? If I’m going to be in here for the rest of my life, I’m not going to dwell on finding out about things that are out of my reach. I have other hobbies, like seeing how high I can count. And writing the alphabet over and over again on my leg. Sometimes I’ll write my name too, trying my best not to forget it. Anything I can do in the pitch black.
Some days are worse than others. Some days I’m so angry about what has happened to me that I don’t even get upset about not being able to see my feet. Other days I laugh at how awful this is. It just depends on which side of the floor I wake up on.
The only human contact I get is when my meals are slid through slot in the floor. I don’t even speak to the person doing it, but when I first got here I would scream whenever it would slide open, and beg to be let out. I don’t anymore. As depressing as it sounds, I’ve accepted this as my future. I no longer cry every waking moment of the day, either because I’ve run out of tears or because I’ve taken captivity in my stride. Whatever option, my eyes don’t feel puffy when I wake up, not like they used to.
The worst part is the darkness. If I just had a tiny window to the outside I think I would feel better. Maybe I could’ve kept count of how long I’ve been in here, watching the sun rise and set. But no, everything is dark. All of the time. I wish that I could take a walk outside of this room, even just once a day, to get a temporary escape from this oversized coffin. All I want is light. Like a reverse vampire, I’m desperate for sun and sick of the darkness.
Water leaks from the ceiling every few seconds, and sometimes, when it stops dripping, I think that it’s a sign. I think that maybe a door will open and somebody will let me out, and I’ll be free. I’ll finally be able to feel grass on my bare feet again, use shampoo in my hair, pet a dog.
But that’s unrealistic. I’ve been banished to this sullen chamber, and I have to accept that. Even as much as I want it to be fake.