I missed Conner.
I missed Mick.
I missed Keith.
I missed Charlie.
I missed Bill.
But most of all I missed Brian.

I woke up, and saw that some of the blood had dried on my arms.
I was hungry.

I closed my eyes for a bit to prevent tears from flowing.
Just then I heard the creaking sound of a door opening.
The sound of heavy foot steps came down the steps, and sent chills through my body.

"Eat you little idiot!"
A tall man shouted as he threw a small roll at me.

He hit me on the back, and across the face.

He went right back up stairs, and I finished the bread.
I got up, bearly, and glanced down at the chains.

Then he returned.
He must have thought I was trying to escape, cause he hit me again.
I fell to the floor.
He grabbed me by my hair, and pined me up against the cold brick wall.

"What the hell! You idiot! Were you trying to escape!?"
He shouted violently jerking me around.

"I, but I-wasn't,-"
Was all I managed to spit out.

"You were! You little bastard! I should just give it all to you!"
He shouted, still having me by my hair.

"Wha?"

"The abuse you deserve!"
He stepped on my foot, probably on porpoise too.

I deserved it. He was right. I was an ordinary brat. Not worthy of a home, of a family.

He drug me up stairs by my hair.

My wounds that had only just begun to heal, were now being abruptly torn open by the wood.
I tried to escape, he hit me across the face, and yanked on my hair.

I cried.

My body was to unstable to continue walking, but I had to.

As I slowed down, he hit me on the back, but kept on walking.

He took me up two flights of stairs, and into an empty room, well half empty, it happen to have a metal cage in it.

The one thing I trust that would always be there for me, weather I needed it or not, was a cage.

He told me to get in, and I was hesitate.
He scowled at me, hit me at least 5 times, maybe more, and shoved me in.

"You little idiot! Bastard, boy!"
He mumbled as he slammed the door, and I heard a key lock it.

The only other time he returned was to give me a small roll of bread.

I looked at my arms, hands, and legs.
The cuts, and welt marks were there, but no actual scars-they were emotional.

The worst kind.🏴