The dry walls closed in as my eyes focused on my spitting image launched by the reflection of the mirror. Cracks in the glass were marked by my rage. These marks created surreal diamonds in my vision; although, taking a step back I could only see the shattered cracks and wounds in this victim.
Reflecting the whole color spectrum, sunlight finds its way through the small windows and only onto an antique mirror. No ray of sunshine strikes on my pale skin. The blue in my eyes recognize the rainbows scattered throughout the glass, but my mind races as I try to comprehend the meaning of this. Color shines through even with the abhorrence. Why is there color in this monochromatic room? Color is an illusion of light; it is nonexistent. Therefore, rainbows are black and white. What is real in this world?
Quickly, Black fades away. Illuminating the darkness, my vision blurs. I squint. It is rare for me to perceive such brightness. Arms wrap around my forehead, and I drag myself into a corner, hurled up in a ball. I hear the screams of a presence entering this dungeon, but no face can be noticeable...anymore. Sadness sweeps my surroundings. Being alone only causes a world of misery.
I feel the slightest wisp of air dawn upon my thin, blonde hair, and images flourish in my mind. With my eyes closed, I envision an open meadow with birds singing and flowers in bloom. I have never felt so free. I manage to make a smile even though I am only daydreaming. The sound of piano plays through the breeze as I open my eyes, but the piano hidden in the corner is stagnant. No tune. No pitch. Trying to tolerate the light pushing through the dry wall, I still know this locked basement will always be filled with animosity.
Hungry and parched, I can barely stand up anymore. Dead mice lay where I rest. The disgust in my face is for the shock of how unreal it was for me to have eaten them. I could have famished, but even with my sadness hope will never vanish. With my stomach aching, I finally stand up. My toes sneak through the floor, floating like a ballerina. Crawling spiders, which are hastily on the move to return to their deep shadows, engulf the basement. I pass the shattered mirror, and my slim body is barely noticeable in the image. My pink dress drags across the cold, cement ground. The thin tulle picks up dust and spiders. They will eventually make a web to live in my delicate fabric. I don't mind though. My focus is only on escaping this lonesome dungeon without screams ringing in my ears.
As I walk between the cold walls, I grasp my scuffed up hands on the poles of the metal door. What is outside these walls? Tears drop on the other side- the side I haven't been on in a year.
On this side of the basement, a blank room stares me in the face saying, "There is nothing to live for." Even though that voice is only in my head, sometimes I believe it; I have barely a memory of feeling the fresh air whirl around me. I have forgotten. Every day I wonder what the outside world is like.
Life would be full of meaning if there were color. Illusions of light do not replace the wonders here. I yearn to see a real yellow sun and stand on purple mountains. Running through green trees and bath in blue waters would be liberating. Adventures could set me free.
As of now, no one knows where I am or who I am; neither do I. As a matter of fact, I don't even know my own name. Perhaps I'm senseless, but being confined in this small area causes my psychoticism. I never gave myself a name either. What's the point anyway when I have no one to talk to but myself?
My parents died fifteen years ago, when I was only two and a half. It was a blur, but I was told it was because of a car accident. I immediately was sent to live with my aunt and uncle, but he had a heart attack a few years later. When I was eight years old, I should have known my own name, but my uncle only called me "Kid" or "You." My uncle didn't care I even existed. He never made me feel welcomed, for I never spoke unless I was spoken to. I always acted like a servant for him: sweeping, cooking, gardening, doing laundry, and whatever he asked. If I didn't do what he had demanded, bad would come out of it; beaten, scarred, bruised, and wounded. I would always hide. My emotions would be out of control. I didn't know what to do with my life. Depression isn't a typical word that describes a young child.
