• Yet another sleepless night from the air that bites at my skin. I look through the window and see that the leaves are now hanging with their last speck of life to the skeletons of once grand trees. The moon, peering past the trees, is illuminating the room as if to mock me. Soon it will be cold. Well, Colder.


    My body will become numb from not being warm enough. There have days when I lie in this bed and every inch of me is covered in bumps, my skin is splotched with colours like purple, blue and orange and I can’t feel my limbs. I hit myself so that I know I still have the ability to feel. And this way I know that my arms are not dead and completely useless.


    In this room there are four things: a bed, a mirror, a bookshelf and a bucket, though these are not my possessions, they just belong here. Just as I belong here.


    Sometimes, to pass my time I watch through the windows which reveal to me the slightest bit of the world out side of this room. They are small and dirty and hard to see through but they are the only evidence I have that this life is not all I could be living for. I open them almost every morning to absorb the foreign sounds of the world and to relieve myself of the stagnant air which I am forced to breathe. Around this time of year the ground is suffocated by a sheet of white. Papa says this is snow. Sometimes I dream about being able to go through the window to get outside. But that is impossible since the windows have bars along them which prevent me from doing so, since I am not small enough.


    The tired bookcase sits towards the corner of my little dungeon. The books have yellowed pages and are stacked upon its shelves. They are the many books Papa has given me. I love to read. It is my way of escaping. I have read every book on the shelf because if I don’t the story will never be told and the book will have no purpose. Since I was little Papa would read me to sleep with magnificent tales of love, war and hope. And I hoped one day I too could write a story. When I asked Papa if I could write a story on paper he said no. And that was that.


    Most days I am visited by Emily. She is small and black and she is a bird, but also my friend. Papa tells me that she is a crow and that I should not feed her my food if I wish to survive. But I haven’t stopped feeding Emily my food and I am still alive. I wouldn’t think I would be a very good friend if I stopped feeding her especially since she seems just as hungry as I am. It would be selfish and I don’t want to be selfish.


    The mirror is the one thing that gives me my identity. When I look at myself I get this feeling that I can’t quite explain, I feel relief because I am alive and somewhat well yet I’m terribly confused, confused because I do not look much like Papa. I asked him one day to stand next to me in the mirror so he did. My skin is tight against my bones and is as saturated as the colour of the snow. Papa’s arms are thick and his skin a light brown colour. His belly pops out under his woolly jumper but mine is hollow like a cave. My skin is stretched tight against my jaw and his cheeks are plump and full of colour. Papa has a thick head of hair and a full beard but my hair is thin and frail and my beard is but a soft layer of fuzz. Papa tells me I look more and more like a ghost everyday but I don’t know what a ghost looks like.


    There is not much I know and what I do know is not of very much importance. I know that I’ve been here for 5110 days and that I was born on the same day my mother died and that when you’re miserable, you need someone even more miserable than yourself so you can feel better. I know this because when Papa is miserable he makes me miserable.


    I feel stiff. Outside it is white, and all I can hear is the howling of the wind. I’m shivering so hard I think I might shake myself to pieces. It hurts and I sting. The air is eating away what is left of me. I close my eyes but I can still see the glow of white from behind my lids. I ignore it and think about the numerous stories of my fictional characters that I’ve imagined in my head many times before and escape into their world of painlessness.


    I am disturbed by the sound of Papa unlocking the door. Perhaps he has come to bring me food. He opens the door and sees me lying on the mattress of the bed. His eyes widen and an expression dances upon his face but quickly disappears. He walks down the steps and sits on the edge of the bed. I notice now he has a book in his hand. He sees me staring and he motions it towards me. I don’t move. Every muscle in my body is willing against it. Even if I take the book I will not have time to read it. When he realises I won’t take it he sets it on the mattress.
    “Papa,” it comes out more as a croak than an actual word. It pains my throat. Papa’s eyes linger on mine and he waits. “Papa, I wish to write. Please let me write. I won’t be here much longer,” My words are whispers.
    His eyes widen for a moment then he studies the length of my body and I can see pain in his eyes.
    “Please, Papa.” I sound so coarse.
    He abruptly stands and leaves up the steps and out the door, locking it behind him. I knew this would happen. Of course he wouldn’t let me write. I cry. My tears puddle on the bridge of my nose til it overflows then streak upon my cheek. My nose runs but I don’t care. I close my eyes tight and concentrate on nothing.


    Once again, the sound of keys in the door disturbs me. This time I do not bother to turn, why should I? Something is placed on the bed and Papa strokes my hair, whispers something I can’t understand and then leaves. I turn to find paper and a few pens sitting next to me. I smile because for once I almost feel whole. I write, against the will of my body. I write until all my stories are written, my hand hurts and I feel I can barely stand to move anymore. I blink as my vision begins to blur. I smile and wait.