The Doodler Origins

Freedom

I wake up, and hear the ticking of the clock that Tim had installed a couple years ago. This clock not only told the time, but also the date. April 14th 2016. My birthday. Yippee skippy. That means I will get more torture then usual. Most likely involving another tattoo somewhere. I rubbed the tattoo on my neck that had been put there a couple days ago. It still stung. I had many more tattoos then where we left off in the last chapter. I now had one both my ankles, and wrists, I had one either above or below my elbows and knees, and one on my chest, and the one on my neck. That one hurt the most so far, and still does. It seemed as though my face was the one thing that didn't have a tattoo. It was 4:37, so Tim will show up in a couple hours. As I scanned the room for any changes, something small caught my eye. It was rather close to my cell too. I rubbed my eyes to get a better look at it. It was a blue pen.
......A PEN! I hadn't held a pen, or any writing utensil in four years! I wondered if I could draw with as much skill as I had before I was kidnapped. (#a pen! #eureka! #shes found a pen!) Shut up Pixel. If I hadn't found that pen, I wouldn't be here with you now. It's very important. And Stop drinking a milkshake while we are filming! God! (#no!!!)
Sorry. Again. Pixel keeps interrupting. And I'm considering getting the duct tape. Any way, I had found a pen and was very excited about it. I assessed how far it was from my cell and found it was in reach. One problem. I couldn't get to the pen without cutting myself on the barbed wire that circled my cell bars.
Screw it. I thought to myself, it's my 15th birthday, so it's bound to be a blood bath anyways. I scooted over to the bars, and reached in between the bars, for the pen. I hadn't cut myself yet, so maybe I was in luck. I struck the pen with my fingers, trying to get it closer. Once I had stuck it to myself enough I grabbed the pen. When I pulled my arm back, I wasn't so lucky. It cut into my forearm, and I whimpered. It stung like a son of Satan, and some of the cuts bled. But, I had the pen. But... no paper. Shit. Well, I can draw on the wall. I clicked the pen, and scribbled on the wall to get the ink flowing. What to draw... what do draw.... then an idea popped into my head. I wanted something to free myself with. And I drew it. Each stroke of the pen filled me with hope, even though I knew I couldn't use this beautiful weapon I had drawn on the wall. When I finished, it was a katana. A sword, with a sharp edge, and a leather handle. I leaned on the wall, next to the picture, tracing my hand over the picture. I wished so badly I could use it. I looked at the clock. Where the hell did time go? It was 5:30! Tim would be here any minute now. I had to hide my pen, because if I didn't, he would take it from me. Where the hell could I hide it? I didn't have a bed or anything. Just myself and a pen. I heard him coming down the stairs. In panic I clipped it to inside my hair on my left side, where it was long, and not cut to a messy buzz cut. Tim came down the stairs, with a cupcake, the only thing sweet I ever get, and only on my birthday. I hate cupcakes now.
He tossed the cupcake into my cell, and it landed on the frosted top. (#Cupcake abuse!!)
...
...
(#What?) YOU KNOW WHAT.
(#oh.) I swear, one more squeak out of you and you won't be able to get in your phone quick enough.
A-Hem. I picked up the cupcake and scraped the frosting off. "Wow. A cupcake, yippee. Must be my birthday." I say sarcastically. "Happy 15 Sammy!" Tim said gruesomely. I was so mad, I threw the cupcake at him. It hit him square in the face. I didn't care if I'll get hit later. I am sick and tired of my shitty life. He blinked the frosting out of his face, and said,"you should not have done that, you little brat." He pried open the bars and grabbed me by my arm, and yanked me out of the cell. He punched me in the gut so hard, I felt the air leave my lungs. Next thing I knew I was being strapped to the table again, but I thrashed. I managed to punch him in the gut, but he doubled over when I kicked him in the balls. I tried to dash for it, but we had been through this dance before. He fell on me. After he recovered his wits, he grabbed me and strapped me to the table. He pulled out his ever so familiar tattooing needle and said evil like, " I know just where to put your new tattoo." He said. "ON YOUR UGLY LITTLE FACE." I was frozen. The one place I hoped he would leave alone. He jammed the needle into my face, I screamed. It was worse then any of the other tattoos I had gotten. I felt the needle rise and lower in my skin, the ink being placed, and the needle coming out only to be shoved back into my skin ever so slightly away from the wound. It hurt, and I wanted to pass out. But I couldn't. Up and down, pain and shock. Pricking and injecting in my face. The needle seemed to go deeper into my skin with each injection of the black ink. It seemed like hours of endless pain, the needle going up and down in my skin. After hours, he finally finished the heart like vine that stretched across my face. It started at the right top corner of my hair line, and stopped on the left side of my jaw line, almost on my neck. It went across my eyebrow, and my eye. I was surprised that he didn't have it go onto eye lid, either way I couldn't open it. I was in so much pain. Tim looked over my face as if he were examining a painting, of his very own creation. "I think that was an improvement to your ugly little face." He said finally. "I hope you burn in hell, and forced to drown in lava everyday! And eat glass instead of actual food! Cause that is what fucking ASSHOLES LIKE YOU DESERVE!" I said, spitting in his face. "Me? Why I'm no asshole! I am a pure angel!" I was so mad, and in pain. I wanted more then anything to make him suffer. I wanted to kill him. I felt a tugging in my stomach, and I heard what sounded like the clanging of metal on a cement floor. "What wa--ccclluurghk!" Tim said. He fell to the floor. I looked in surprise that a sword had impaled Tim square in the throat. He was trying to gasp for air, but it wasn't working. He was drowning on his own blood, laying there, gasping, and twitching. I was horrified at first, but I smiled. He was finally getting what he deserved. I laughed, I wanted him to suffer more. As if on command, the sword twisted in his throat. He tensed up in pain. I laughed even harder, and looked up to see if I could get the wielder of the sword to free me, but I saw no one. What I did see was a leather handle.
The exact one that I had drawn on the sword I had drawn on the wall.