January 16, 2012

Ryan came again. Took his turn with me. No one is allowed to do what Him does, so Ryan finds pleasure some other way. He likes cutting. Not me. No, he doesn't cut me. Of all the others trapped here, I'm his favorite. There's at least twenty-five others. How do I know? Because he likes cutting. He likes me cutting.

Every Monday, he brings one into a room, gives me a knife, and threatens to shoot me if I don't do it. Ryan makes me cut them. He chooses where, and I comply. It's either them or me. Today he brought in a child.

Fifteen years old by my guess, the same as I was when I first came. I saw myself in her. I saw my young self through her terrified green eyes. I couldn't do it.

Ryan tried to make me, threatened me with his gun. I couldn't do it. He shot me. In the thigh. I couldn't move. Blood seeped through the only outfit I was given. Long white pants, and a white t-shirt. Him wouldn't be happy.

Ryan did it anyways, what I couldn't. He took the knife, and strategically cut her back into a design only he knew and understood. His branding. The same way he branded me.

My leg still sears with pain.

I need to sleep. It hurts too much.