The beginning: I admit, I'm less than normal, of course that would depend on what you define as normal. But anyway, just so everyone knows, my name is Samara. Samamra Louise Morgan. To start with, that is a pretty weird name.I've lived in my mother and father's lighthouse for all the years that I have known. I'm less than perfect, that is beyond obvious. But again, that would depend on what you consider to be perfect. As I was saying, I have always been somewhat less than what everone has wanted me to be. There are many kinds of people...many more than one person could name. And there are many people within each kind. Where I fit, there is only me. I am not suprised. I haven't had a friend in a very long time. Come to think about it, I don't think I've ever really had friends. Friends are supposed to care about you and like you for who you are. I can't be friends with people who want me to change. The doctor I have seen before does not trust me; no-one does, not even my father, who had banished me from his sight. Honestly, I really have nothing to live for, and I have seriously thought about, yes that's the word, suicide. But really, suicide isn't much good either. Think about it; no-one knows me, so no-one can miss me, so I might as well try to change something while I'm here. I am only young, eleven years old, I think, but I fear nothing; not even my father. But don't worry. I don't think I'll ever go that far as killing myself. Unless someone causes me to. I feel like I do not fit where I am now; people who do see me stare and point, and those who do not, tell stories of me and warn their neighbors and children. They don't know. But they don't really want to. The beginning of the end is the horses; even as I sit here, looking outside the barn door, where light creeps in, they haunt me, tearing me farther from the mother that I know. A lot of times I try not to remember before all of this. It is hard. In fact, it almost seems that there was nothing before this. I will not write of it. Right now seems like a perfect day. Perfect for what, I don not know. Perfect. Such a terrible word. For if things were perfect, nothing would ever change, and change is what I live for. It is beautiful here. It will not be for long. Time is constantly tearing at everything and everone, and little by little, that thing will dissolve. The dissolving leaves nothing more behind than a rotten corpse. I do not understand why this must be. I do know why; because of the mortality of human beings, but why it is not another way, is what I wonder during these bland days of emptiness. I can hear the soft pattering of raindrops on the tin roof over my head; my room's pink wallpaper peels at the corners from the dampness. The only familiar sound is distant; my musical carousell that spins awkwardly on the shaky table beside my bed. The delicate horses and monkees that travel up and down twist and jerk, out of time with the tired chiming tune. That tune is trapped like a bug under a cup in my head. I've made-up words, but they never seem to say what I want them to. It is getting darker, but I do not feel sleepy; I never do. Another thing about me. I cannot sleep. I was simply not built to do so. Built. Perhaps I was. A plate has just been placed at the doorway of the barn; freshly boiled corn and potatoes steam in the remaining light. It exists without use; I feel no hunger tonight. Daybreak: Atlast there is light enough to write once more. My long black hair enwraps me from the harsh ice of this morning; the horses' warm breath condenses to look like steam, and the occasional whinny echoes and mixes with the sound of the ocean tide in the distance. I long so much to climb my ladder down and go to my mother; what seems so easy is in reality so difficult for me. But it is not because I am weak. In reality, I am very strong; however I choose to show myself this way in order to decieve my opponents. I stood, reaching into my drawer to pull out a fresh dress. It was white, with small pinkish bows on both sleeves. Presently, I am sitting on my creaky, wire-framed bed, brushing-out my long, jet black hair, which had become matted during the darkest hours of the night. To describe my room is not difficult, just painful; it very small, perhaps twelve feet by fourteen feet square. In the corner furthest from the edge of my loft, which is in my father's horsebarn, is my tired bed, and beside that my table and old carousel chimes. For too many years I have outgrown that carousel. Still, it comforts me. Besides that is a television and a weak-bottomed chair. That is all. The only light I live by comes from the opened door in the barn, below. I have nothing more, and nothing less except this small, damp diary and a blunt pencil with which I am writintg now. I'm not really hungry; something is turning in my stomach now. I stare at my filthy bedroom walls. Originally, they were a beautiful oak. At least, I imagine that they were. Now, they are covered in hideous paper with small prints of animals. I feel dizzy right now; unstable. I will try to get down my ladder safely to the bottom, though my hope fades as my head is now beginning to spin. After Ladder: I am safe now; no more ladders to climb down. The cold, clammmy hay is sticking to my pale, bare feet, and the horses smelly breath blows my hair as I advance towards the sunlight outside. I turn to face the old, creaking house which seems so far away. It was beautiful once, like everything in the world, and now, it's once proud, brightly painted shutters have slowly peeled, revealing aged wood. My mother, Anna, stood before the ocean, past the lighthouse, staring into the vast and chilling waters; crashing and tumbling upon the rocks, which were being eaten away slowly. That grey water, so angry and cold. Saying nothing, I approached the petrified figure. As I stepped closer, my mother turned around slowly, revealing a aged, tear-stained face. I opened my mouth to speak, but no sound came. The wind-torn sound of my angry father yelling broke the ocean's rythm. I do not recall what he said nor do I wish to; it was as cold and grey as the sea itself. My mother huddled her thin arms around me and clung to me asthough she would never see me again. "We must go, Samara," she began. "we must find out if you are sick." my mother ended, her proud head falling. As we ride in my father's car, I do not understand. Well, perhaps some part of me does. I feel cold and numb as we pull into a large parking lot, near to a white building with no windows. "Come, Samara." my mother said, offering her hand as I reluctantly stepped out of the car. "Where am I going?" I asked in a small voice as three tall men in long white coats walked towards us. For a moment, I thought my voice was still within my head, for my mother simply looked on, stiff and old looking. Syringes: It is a blur of the order of what happened, but I will do my best to recall correctly. I was pushed through a door; my mother and father left behind. I turned to run back, but was restrained heavily. My father stood at the window above the door, smiling asthough his precious thoroughbreads had just won a trophy. "Mommy!" I yelled as two strong men hoisted me onto a stiff board. The man in charge, who wore a pair of goggles, revealed a long, steel needle. "Now, Samara," he began "I don't want you to be afraid." I wriggled as the man stuck the cold shaft of metal into the delicate flesh of my left arm. At first it hurt like a knife cutting through me; then, for what seemed like eternity, it proceeded to make my arm numb and prickly. I heard mumbles among the men. "She should have dropped minutes ago." one said in a high voice. "It'd be dangerous to give her more." another man replied. Filling up the syringe once more, this time, much less descreet, the man with the goggles pricked me again. I felt asthough my head was about to fall off, and I reached forward with the last amount of strength I possessed and tore the needle from my skin, leaving a long, searing cut along my arm. Plainly said, I threw the needle as hard as I could, in the direction of one of the men; it stuck him in the chest. I could almost feel the victory. He gasped like a dying horse several times before he finally fell to the floor. The other men did nothing but stare at me in amazement. Trying to stand, I toppled over and hit my head on the icy linoleum floor tiles; the buzzing sound of florescent lights echoeing through the floor. Endless Day: I awoke suddenly, with a jolt. My arm hurt and a swelling throbbed in my forehead. I sleepily rubbed my eyes and found my journal on the floor. Now, I write in the view of a protruding camera, which tapes my every movement. The room which I am in has no end, nor a beginning, it simply goes on. Each wall is stark white, and a small bed rests in the corner where I am sitting. I know nothing of time, and the lead in my pencil is wearing down quickly. Where my arm was injected is a nasty pouch, a bruised blister, where a gathering of yellow liquid has accumulated; I assume from the medication that the men had earlier drugged me with. I sit here, knowing nothing, and gaining no more knowledge by sitting, staring a a dizzying white wall. Hours and what seems like days has passed; I have not slept, as I do not usually, and the air in this cramped chamber is starting to feel stale. My pencil broke earlier, and I was forced to sharpen it with my longest fingernail, which is now shredded and bleeding, though I can now write again. Door: As I sit here doing nothing, my muscles are beginning to twitch and spasm; the door in the wall, which is locked, just began to open very slowly. "Samara?" A light voice called from behind the half-open door. "Samara." The voice was much sterner this time. A fat nurse appeared from behind the door; she was scowling. I'm not moving; just sitting on the bed. Not saying anything else, the woman turned and called for two security guards, who roughly hauled me into another stark-white room. However, this room was set up differently, with more cameras, a table and several wire connections. "Sit down, Samara." The fat nurse said, as the security guards dumped me into a chair. Why is it that people of this profession act asthough I'm stupid? I do actually know my own name. As soon as I was seated, a man in a long white coat began attatching wires to my hands and forehead, which were in turn attached to a large machine; perhaps for measuring heartrates. A tall man sat a desk; he held some of my pictures from the loft and my fragile diary as well. "So, Samara, why don't you sleep?" the tall man asked. How many times must they ask. I do not sleep because I am not tired. I said nothing, my long hair covering my pale face. "How do you make these?" he asked, changing the subject. In his weather-beaten hands he held several of my pictures. I didn't really know how to answer his question. "Samara?" he asked sternly. The pictures were like carbon-copies on a plastic surface; it was one of my talents that I was actually proud of. "I see them, and they just are." I said; it was true, I simply thought of something and it was, or it became; I had never thought anything of it. "Now, Samara, you need to stop lying to me." he said, putting my journal and pictures down. "Samara, you don't try to hurt people, do you?" he asked reassuringly. I was getting angry and could almost feel the brine of hate boiling beneath my skin. "Oh, but I do, and I'm sorry, but it will never stop." The room grew silent except for the distant hum of the video camera. "Can I see my mommy now?" I asked, tightening my grip around myself. "No, Samara, we need to find out what's wrong with you." "What about you father?" he asked. "My daddy doesn't love me." I replied. "Samara, your daddy loves you very much." he said, sitting up strait. "Daddy loves the horses." I replied, because it was true. "But he doesn't know..." I Trailed off. The man, apparently satisfied, stopped recording me, and handed my things to another nurse. Cold Meal: Back to my white jail cell once more; this time, there is food awaiting me; cold, canned food, food that is probably drugged, food I will not eat today or any another. I think the doctors are trying to make me crazy; I still have no knowledge of time, though it does not matter since I do not sleep anyway. I long to be again in my tiny loft in the horse barn; I do not fit here anymore than a badger among foxes, and I am trying, somehow, to summon my will from inside, to escape this never-ending nightmare of reality. But somehow, I know that whilst on this Earth, I can never be free. Later: I have stood against the wall for many hours, staring at the rancid food set before me, on the floor. If I were outside, or exposed to real sunlight, this food would be covered in flies; swarms and masses of them, in fact. It is not even food, but disgusting medicine concealed within. My arm is still sore; it has deflated and drained the fluid now. 2nd Open Door: The door has again begun to open; this time, my mother's shadow is cast on one of my walls. I have stopped writing to stare at her; her once beautiful face is drawn and tired, her fingers callused and old. I say nothing, but continue to write this. She is approaching me like a hunter approaches his prey, and I say nothing and do not look her way, no matter what she says. "Samara, we can leave now." she says. I stop writing. Although I say nothing audible, I stare at her, my eyes burning through her this very moment. She backs away, clutching her fists, almost shuddering. I rise from the creaky bed towards the door, journal in hand. Pushing past my mother and into the hallway, I am now making my way through this asylum. The hallways are the same as my room; white, dizzying and without natural light. My bare feet pad on the icy tile floor, as I pass others with sick minds and ill bodies. I turn sharply to the left; my father, Richard Morgan, stands proudly, his hands placed firmly by his side. He says nothing as I come, but then, I didn't expect him to. Home: The car ride home was tortuous, much longer than the ride out; my mother's body looks limp as we turn corners, my father looks asthough he might kill someone. It seems that I can almost taste his bitterness; the disapointment in his eyes flaring as he glances in his rear-view mirror at me from time to time. With every sharp turn of the steering wheel he seems to be cursing, but quietly. So quietly, only I can hear him. We are at the lighthouse at last; the sky is musty grey, and the horses are grazing in the fields beyond. I have just walked towards our wishing well; it is very old, and crumbles around the edges, and seems to have no bottom. I like looking into it, imagining what everything must look like from beneath the water. Perhaps it is more quiet below the ground and easier to think. I can only wonder. Like I said before, it is beautiful here, the horses, the lighthouse, all beautiful things. Such is not the way it will be in due time. I can hear my mother approach from behind me. Even though I cannot see her, aged breathing and hands colder than those of the dead tell me that she is dying, though she fought hard, once. "Isn't it beautiful, Samara?" she asked. I spoke in silence as a reply. Before I could think any more, a black bag was pulled over my head. I struggled. I fought. But to no avail. My eyes were swelling and I felt dizzy. "All I ever wanted was you." she whispered as I began to fall headfirst into oblivion. Dark Place: I have awoken dead, if such a thing is possible. Truly, I am not dead yet, but I am sure that I am not completely alive, either. I will write about my existence now; I am in the well; the stone lid covered; all I see is a ring... In a way, that ring of endless light teases me, for if I look into it long enough, it almost grows closer. It gets just close enough to touch when it decides to move back to where it was before. I can hardly write by the darkness in this endless tunnel; all ready I have lost two fingernails to the rough walls, as I have tried to climb out several times. It would seem that my fate is sealed; perhaps. I know only the time by the circular light above me changing regularly. I feel no pain, only hatred against. 2nd Day: It has been a full two days since I wrote last; there is no way out, only a way in, and the past cannot be changed now. Every moment I try to hope that I will awaken, but I do not. This feeling is strange to me, but even more strangely familiar. It is almost as if I am the center of a dream; a dream that I alone can control. I can only wonder if I can awaken. It is too dark to write any more into these soggy pages. 3rd Day: I feel no hunger today, nor will I tomorrow; I am close to losing my sanity this very moment. However, I must go on. Somehow, I must avenge my torture in this endlessly dark abyss. My mother will suffer for this; she will not live unpunished by her decsision to rid the world of me. Something hurt my toe, and if I bow my head beneath the water, I can taste the salt from my blood mingled with the slimy green algae. Blood. It will run. Day 4: I can see in my mind exactly what I will do; I cannot write of this, for they it reign soon enough. The horses will suffer, though I understand it is not their fault. Richard Morgan, my detached father, and Anna, my mother, cannot forget me so easily, and all the world will know of me before anything can be done. Yes my body will die, and I have come to terms with the very idea of death; but my spirit will remain. Death, after all, is not such a frightening concept. It is merely the beginning of something in which I don't know about. Perhaps I will awaken when I die. I must wait until I die, now, for it is the only way for my mark, my curse, to start. To begin. Day 5: My hands and feet are wrinkly from the cold, murky water, and my eyes are accustomed to the darkness. My fingers are raw from trying to climb out, and are bleeding, though the scarlet colour of my blood is darkened by the lack of light. I can only imagine what my hands look like. I have only to die to start my last wish; to start my terror, unless the secret is discovered. To die; if only I could. It is the one thing I cannot do yet; it is the one remaining obstacle I have yet to succumb to. It is raining and the water from the torn clouds is draining into my new home; the water is rising; it is up to my neck; writing is hard, and for almost no purpose; the paper disintegrates easily, and I must hold my arm up to keep this journal from being destroyed. My biggest fear is losing this pencil and journal to this terrorizing well. All ready twice today I have dropped my pencil. The slime and muck along the bottom seem to almost swallow my feet, then my calves; I know that I will not die quickly. Only fatigue will do the job. Day 6: To my count, I have been in this dark well for almost an entire week. To end my time, I have tried to kill myself by banging my head against the stone wall; but it only suceeds in making my suffering more painful and end in lasting longer. From trying to escape this pit, I have lost all of my fingernails, except for my left thumb; they stick in the rough wall; where, I don't know; for it is dark, perhaps night. The 7th Day: I have dreamt of rising from this absolute hell...I am slipping away slowly. Who would have thought that dying would be so difficult? I know that soon, my time will come at last, I am destined to rest, but not for long, for my story is forced by my power to repeat itself until the world over has shared my grief and suffering. What remains in question is the future, and what I can do with it, now that I can control it. I'm still here...