An inhuman scream woke me. I realized that I was the one who had screamed and that no one would come running for me. My mother was dead, father was in prison for life and I was a captive. I've been a prisoner for the past five years. In some ways, I have been a captive to myself. The men here wear masks, that leave everything to the imagination. For five years, I have wondered what they look like. For five years, I have planned what I would do to them if I ever got out. I would ruin them. Their entire organization, their families, their lives, them. But I would have to wait. Like I had for the past five years. Like I would for who knows how much longer. Each day went by slower than the last, and I was slowly breaking. The men would come in with whips, chains, hot irons. I always knew when they would come, which made it even worse. I anticipated them. They would question me. Questions about my father, what he was like, my mother, what she was like, all kinds of random questions that somehow, stirred something inside of me, making me want to hurt them. They would describe my mother in perfect detail, then, with words, they would paint a picture of her death for me. Each time it was different, each time it was more gruesome and more gut wrenching than the last. They would ask me more serious questions about my father, like who he was working for, what did he know about them and such. I never knew the answers and my silence elicited further beatings. So I learned to ignore. I created a mindset where i could go to forget about everything that was happening to me. I finally managed to escape their brutality if only for a little while. Somewhere, a door slammed and I knew it was them. sure enough heavy footsteps made their way towards me. I braced myself.