Captivity: First Draft.

We live in captivity. Here, darkness embraces us, surrounds us. We grow accustomed to its mystery and allow it to blanket us with comfort. Our other senses have heightened. In the darkness, our flaws are hidden, our grotesque features disguised and blended into the shadows. We are one being made up of individuals. Each of us blinded by the darkness that binds us. I know not what another looks like, nor how I appear, but that is of no importance as no eyes have ever adjusted the blackness. In our lives we all suffered. We were pained by loss and harassment elicited by those who did not understand us. We find comfort in that we are all facer of difficult times. Each of us is scarred. We experienced life in a terrible way. The end could not arrive fast enough.

In life, we smiled robotically screaming for companionship with someone who would listen, someone who would care. We each reached a dead end, a time where the suffering was too much to endure, and we died by our own hands. Hell is the place of torture, and we live ours every day. Nobody can see another, and we are left alone with the dark parts of our minds. Screaming is common, crying is a constant, and grief is important. He wants us understand our mistakes, but we can only blame Him. Our lives were a game piece, removed from the board in an untimely manner, but we were not able to deal with the treacherous thing that is life. Yet, none of us could have realized the suffering that would come. This new form of suffering is worse. Up there, we were alone, yet surrounded by people with whom we could try to be whole again; here, the darkness makes us completely alone. It not only blurs our vision, but also drowns the sound of anything real with it. The screaming is all we hear now, or maybe it is my own thoughts. Regardless, there are no companions here, and there never will be.

I am stuck. I cannot move as the chains that hold me down are attached to the cold, damp stone that covers not only the walls but the floors as well. I do not know what the ceiling is made of; however, a drop of water falls every now and then, so I assume it is the same stone. Here, there is no sleep. We all remain constantly awake and terrified as the darkness reminds us each of our worst fears. For me, that fear is loneliness. I did not intend to allow myself to feel the pressures as life as forcefully as I did. My parents divorced when I was young, and I was forced to move with my father to a new place. He worked upwards of 12 hours a day, so I spent a majority of my time alone. Since I had to move to live with him, I knew nobody at school, exiled from those my age. As I grew older, the trend remained.

At the age of 16, I rebelled. I was given an old car for my birthday, a black car. I used it to go to the underground—a place I was told to stay away from due to drug addictions and crime that the group caused, so naturally I was drawn to it. My first night there, I tried drugs with names I had never heard of; I slept with a man 10 years older than me. The price: a knife. This new knife of mine brought me pain when I took it to my own wrists. At this point in my life, I was not suicidal; I wanted the emotional pain to leave. This physical pain offered an escape from the emotions I feared.

Soon, at the age of 18, the escape became numbing. Nothing could help me to rid myself of my emotional instability from being exiled by those my age and my own family. I returned to the underground with my knife, prepared to be violent if anybody attempted to stop me from doing what I wished. I entered the dark alley once again. I turned the corner and stumbled on a rat on the ground. Its tail was stuck under my shoe. I opened my knife and cut open the rodent, using its blood to mark an “X” on my bicep. Upon arrival, I was stared at. Even those who were exiled from society and forced into the underground did not deem me good enough to remain here.

I walked calmly to the building where drugs were kept. I climbed 13 flights of stairs and stood at the window. The breeze smelled of rust and steel. The rust—a faint odor from the blood on my knife and bicep; the steel—the last odor I breathed in before hitting a pole plunged into me from the jump I had just made.

We all have our own stories. We each took our own lives. We endure pain here, just as we had there, but now, there is no distraction from the pain. We must live it in a never-ending cycle.

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