8th December

Why can’t I stop thinking and writing about the past? Maybe because I know I’m never going to get out of here alive, and I hope that someone will find this diary and know that I was here that I lived and died here, and maybe they’ll care just a bit, and maybe they’ll tell my family. And my family will know that I loved them and I was always thinking of them, and I didn’t give up (well, not often, anyway), and that I don’t blame them and they aren’t to blame themselves. Shit happens, as they say (whoever ‘they’ are). Anyway after the first week or so I couldn’t talk anymore, let alone scream, and I was starving, because I refused to eat or drink anything. He did manage to force feed me a little (oww!!) bit, but not enough to stop me passing out from hunger or malnutrition. When I woke up again, He told me that if I didn’t stop acting like a naughty little girl He would have to Punish me. I told Him to go ahead and Punish me, what did I care. What did I know?! He did Punish me. And it hurt worse than anything I ever imagined. I think I went into shock, it was like He had torn me in half. I don’t remember much after that, just blood and pain. Lots of blood and lots more pain. And Him. My first clear memory after that was Him telling me that if I was good He would reward me. I still haven’t figured out the difference. Pain is pain is pain. His Punishing rewards came almost everyday and all that changed was me. I learned I could stop feeling, I could close my mind and leave, go away somewhere else. I like to go and see the sunset best cause then it doesn’t matter so much that I can’t see the colours, that I only see grey, all different shades, but still all only grey. That’s another thing that’s changed. I don’t see colour anymore, even in my head. There is no colour to see here, just darkness and grey. Well, on with my story. When I first woke up, He had taken my things, including my clothes, and left me a grey sack-like thing He called ‘A suitable dress for a young lady’. Once a week He brings me a cleanish one to change into (at least I think it’s once a week), and a plastic bowl of cold water to wash with. Sometimes He even brings me a sliver of foul smelling soap (I think it’s soap) and a rag to dry myself with, but that’s only every now and again. Thinking about it makes me realise how BAD I smell right now. Aargh, Phew, Oinker, do I pong something fierce.