My Home; My Prison

My pocketknife and my wrist meet, though I have to do a little sawing to get my wrist to bleed because my knife is dull. Blood starts dripping from the wound and I bring my wrist to my mouth quickly in order to keep my sheets white. Blood spills down my throat; the first time I did this I gagged but now I readily accept the nourishment.

I'm too thin and my ribs are too prominent, I can't help it... I'm starving. There's nothing in the cabinets, the fridge, or even the house. It's empty and so am I. The blood stops flowing, it may be better that way, so that I won't bleed to death. I'm going to die soon anyway, my body is eating itself inside out. I'm trapped in this house and I'm not even sure if I'm even still alive.

I must look like a wild animal by now, if someone were to come in I would attack. Last week I ate part the couch, next might be the pale-green shag carpet from the living room. It's only a temporary full, there's no real nourishment. I heard once that there are girls that have tryied to lose weight by eating cotton to fill their stomachs because it can't be digested. My only "nourishment" is my own blood... but I suppose I'm only giving back what I've taken from myself: recycled vitamins and minerals. At least it calms my stomach for a while.

I'm a prisoner, trapped alone in my home. My blond hair is disheveled, ratted, and greasy... it almost looks black and it's coming out in clumps. My skin is pale and my cheeks hollow. I used to have bright blue-green eyes, but now they have been dulled by lack of nourishment.

I have no idea how long I have been trapped in here since I cannot see the sun. Long ago this was my home, not a prison as it is now. My mother and sisters busied themselves making cookies, cakes, candies; you name it. The house always smelled heavenly, and everyone was willing to share. Those were happy times, that is, until our mother died. The cause of her death was unknown at the time, but now I know that she was murdered.

Our father poisoned her, along with all of my sisters in the process. We were sitting at dinner and my father's face was unusually sweaty. I wasn't really hungry that night so I pushed my food around on my plate. Suddenly my mom passed out onto the table, her dark brown hair in her food. One by one my three sisters fell too, until my dad and I were the only ones still alive. My father laughed cynically, not at all unlike a madman, as he threw their bodies into a fire in our backyard. After he had finished this dastardly deed he turned to me, grinning. In the firelight he looked like Satan himself.

He grabbed me by the shoulders, threw me into the house, tied me up to a chair, and began nailing boards across the windows. To prevent me from pulling the boards apart with my hands he used his pocketknife to pull all of my fingernails off, one by one. He then grabbed me by the wrists and put my hands into the fire repeatedly. I screamed in pain until my hands went completely numb and my nerves died. My fingernails never did grow back, and I doubt they ever will. He sprayed all of the boards with pesticides so that I wouldn't use my teeth to escape. Afterwards he made it impossible to open any of the doors leading outside.

He left me then but not before he threatened me, "If you ever leave this house I will find you and kill you. Your death will be slow and painful. Don't you ever leave this house."

The next few days I wandered around aimlessly the house, half poisoned by the fumes that lingered in the air. I still hear my father sometimes, wandering around outside the house, ensuring that I hadn't escaped. I haven't, nor have I even tried. I knew that if I had managed to find a way to escape he would come and kill me.

It is fear that holds me here, and my loneliness and depression making it a prison. The only thing I have to believe in is God. I pray to Him, wherever he is, asking for someone, anyone to find me and rescue me. I also wish that my father would die. I'm not sure how old I am but once I escape I can do the math to figure it out. Maybe I could even make up for all of the birthdays I have missed. That is, if I ever escape.