My name is Lydia Duprée. The days and nights bleed into each other as I sit locked in this room. The winter sky is bleak and gray; at least what I can see of it through the sliver of window that is not completely covered by snow. The window is almost completely covered with a densely woven metal – stronger than a mesh, but in a kind of privacy, blocking weave. The top right corner looks as if someone tried to pull it away and then gave up. Maybe it was an intruder who got tired of trying. The covering blocks an outsider’s view of this room. I don’t remember how long it’s been that way. Maybe it’s been covered since my father owned this house. This window is not located on a natural walking path around the house so it’s easy to go unnoticed and, therefore, so am I.
It's cold. I have plenty of blankets to keep warm, yet still I am cold.
I woke last night as the door was being locked behind what I presume was my captor. When I turned on the light I found clean clothes and a fresh supply of food. Whoever it is seems to want me alive.
My fears get the better of me everyday. The solitude doesn't get easier; it gets harder.
The walls are thick – screaming and banging does no good. I pace. How can I be so hated by someone?
©2011 Michael Rohrer
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