Why.

This is the only word that surfaces, day in and day out. It is not a question, only a statement. The word crosses my path, but I make sure that it passes quickly so as not to disturb the hibernation of my mind. I have checked out of life. I am not here, yet I am here. While I am here, I refuse to raise the question of why. I will not begin any sort of wondering why and racking my brain for an explanation behind this life sentence I am facing. When I can feel the word float back from the depths of my gut into my heart and then my head, I stop this word before the heart and head can turn it into pondering my uneventful existence. That sort of reflection is more unnecessary than my survival.

Why.

There is no room for a squiggly mark over that dot after those three letters written on the top of this page. I have not room for that sort of query and its begging to commence the self annihilation brought about by questioning an inconsequential existence such as mine.

It is not bad. The three by four foot space kind of life is not bad at all. The only bad part was getting used to the darkness. It is so dark that I cannot see my hand waving in front of my face as I try to snap myself out of this wondering nonsense. The blackness is all I know. I do not remember anything before the black. I learned to see with my hands. I know everything in my room because of how I can see with my hands so well. I have scoured the space. I know the door underneath the door. It is about two hand-widths wide, one hand-width high. There is a box to the left of the door. It is made of wood. I think it is oak. Oak is the heavy one. I do not know how I know that, but I remember that oak is heavier. That box is oak. Next to the box about two paces further is the bucket. I despise the bucket. My waste fills the bucket. I try not to eat much because I hate those moments when I have to fill the bucket. It burns my privates every time. He tells me to drink the red drink when that happens. The red drink is in the jug that sits in the corner opposite where the bucket sits. I sit by the jug. Sometimes I sit on the box. Nothing is in the fourth corner of my space.

In the oak box are my things. The wall behind the oak box has my grooves.  I count them every time I feel like  a lot of time has passed, then I add another groove using the thing he makes me put in my hair. It is kind of sharp enough for groove carving. I have six hundred and thirty-two grooves so far. The grooves make my breath sounds slower. They make me feel peaceful.

My gown is in the box. It is soft. Satin is what he calls it. He likes when I wear the gown and the small clothes that he slides through the door beneath the door. When I am good, he slides me toys through the little door. I have a doll. I think I have always had her. Her name is She. She has long hair. She does not wear clothes. I cover her up with my gown because She wishes she could wear cloths like the other dolls. She does not feel comfortable without clothes because people like him can see all of her when she does not have clothes. My gown does a good job covering her, which I am glad for. I think it is too small for me, but I am glad it covers her and lets her hide her privates from him. Even though it is dark, She would like a way to hide part of herself when the light turns on, and he arrives. She has long hair and She does not like when I tug on her hair or pick her up by her hair. She likes it when I hold her and tell that She is a good girl. She is not a bad girl. She should not let anyone tell her anything like that.

One day, I hope to leave my space. I think I will be able to leave when I am a good girl like She is. Until then, only he can open the door. My side does not have a doorknob like his does. He says bad girls do not get doorknobs on their doors. I wonder if bad boys get their doorknobs taken off too. Maybe if he is bad, they will remove his doorknob. I would not mind if he could not open the door anymore. I like my space. I do not need anyone to open the big door as long as they slide some food and sometimes the red drink though the little door under the door.

Usually I am not afraid. If I do not let the word “why” become a question, I am never afraid. I do not fear much. I only fear the light. My chest pumps blood into my cheeks and my center when I see the line of light under the door and through the little door at the bottom of the door. My hands get sweaty. My chest gets tight. All over, I am wet, but I can’t help it anymore. He is coming. He always comes with the light. I don’t like what happens in the light. I think he likes what happens in the light. In fact, I think he likes it very much.

Why can’t he leave me alone in my space?

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