To be honest, I almost forgot I had a family to go home to. It had been years since I had seen them. I was four when I was taken. Stolen from my home. Nine years later, the first four years of my life no longer mattered. When you ask me now what I remember from my childhood, I would tell you I remember darkness. I lived in the darkness for nine years. I rarely got the chance to see light, let alone go outside. But I had been so used to the light, or lack there of, that darkness didn't phase me. Light did. Horribly.

There comes a time in your life when you realize that what you're hoping for isn't going to happen. You waste all your time expecting something that you're suddenly left with nothing when it hits you that whatever you wanted isn't gonna happen. For maybe the first three years since I had been taken away from my family, I waited expectantly for them to show up one day and take me back home. I remember the day I realized they weren't coming. After one of the usual beatings, I was allowed upstairs for once. I never asked why and they never offered an explanation. I sat on the couch with my kidnappers while they watched TV. I was allowed to watch so I did. The light from the TV hurt my eyes. I couldn't watch TV like I used to and then it hit me how long I had been away from my family. That was the last time I cried. I was seven then. When I was found, I was thirteen.

When the police found me in the basement, I didn't know why they were there. I had long forgotten that there was life outside of what I knew. I shouldn't say I had forgotten, because I hadn't. It was more along the lines of me pushing it out of my mind. It seemed normal. I was almost sad to see the people I grew up with thrown in prison. I was relieved that there wouldn't be a trial for them because all of my kidnappers had pleaded guilty. At the same time, though, I was angry. I was angry that they gave up that quickly. They could've tried to fight. I would've stood up for them. I guess they didn't think I would. I hated myself for ever being scared of them because I figured that since I closed myself off to them they automatically thought that I would go against them in court.

I wasn't allowed to talk to or see my real family for a few weeks after I was found. I wasn't stable for it, they explained. I could admit that I was physically unstable due to how sick my body was but at the same time I wanted to see them. No matter how much I would miss the people I lived with for nine years, I missed my family more, even though sometimes I didn't believe it. I was kept in the hospital during this time. I convinced the doctors to keep the lights off but they wouldn't let me stay in the dark all day. They'd turn the lights on periodically in the hopes that my eyes would grow accustomed to them. I wasn't allowed out of my bed so often but after the first week or so I started physical therapy. I had barely walked while I was there. My legs were weak and I couldn't support myself, especially after I started gaining more weight. I still barely spoke, even after three weeks in the hospital. I didn't want to talk. I didn't mention anything that's happened in that basement. I didn't mention anything about my kidnappers. I only spoke when I wanted the lights off or if the nurses asked me a question that wasn't personal, like how I was feeling.

After a few weeks, the doctors said I was stable enough to go home and see my family. I really liked that idea. I wanted to go back home. I wanted to see my family. I was scared to, though. As much as I knew it was wrong, I wanted to go back to my kidnappers. I wanted to go back to living in their basement while they abused me every day. I almost cried at the thought of never seeing them again, but I never cried.

It came to the day where I was allowed to go home. One of the nurses went out and bought me clothes I could wear so I could finally change out of the hospital gown. She also got me shoes. I hadn't worn shoes since I was taken and I can't say I ever liked them. I sat on the bed with my knees up to my chest while I waited for my family to come by.

And they did.

All four of them appeared in the doorway. My mother was in tears as she smiled at me. My dad seemed to be choking back his own tears. My oldest brother stared at the floor but I could still see the tears. My other older brother was grinning ear to ear at me. He wasn't crying but I could tell on his face that he had been. I just stared at them. I didn't smile or cry like them. I didn't move. My mother walked slowly towards me.

"Ponyboy..."