I looked out of the window today and I thought how nice it must be to go running along the grassy paths that have grown worn and tired over the winter months. I saw everyone congregating there whilst on their breaks, drinking hot chocolate and singing old folk songs. Jealousy was red hot in my heart and in my belly. But did I ever complain to anyone?
No, because nobody ever comes in here, I am lost to the backs of their minds. I am simply a breakfast and dinner tray through a slot in the bottom of a thick oak door. I am paying for the doctor once a month to dare crossing the border of oak. I am a curse, a witch.
As I sat watching them all, I couldn't help but wonder, who is the real curse? Me or them?
They are only servants of course. Under instruction from whoever, I have never found out who keeps me here, there are no mirrors filled with explanation and the doctor never explains. But even servants can cut, especially when they are the only people you see or hear day in day out.
My only solace is the wide collection of books and the different activity, paints, or cards, left on my breakfast tray each day. I have always been able to read. I can't remember being taught. From that I have taught myself French and am slowly reading all of the major works of the past century I can lay my hands on.
My life to some would seem perfectly fine.
But I want more than fine.
I want to be alive.