The scream pierced the haze of my dream, shattering any remaining tendrils of warmth and happiness. I had been dreaming of a woman, my mother, with long golden hair and blue eyes that sparkled like sapphires, and a man, my father, with smile lines around his twinkling brown eyes. I dreamed that I was with them, but not me, the teenage prisoner with the ratty clothes and matted hair, but me, the me I was before all this happened. The little girl with the innocent green eyes and unruly ruby hair, who talked endlessly with everyone in sight. I dreamed mom, dad, and I were baking double-chocolate chip cookies, flour smeared on noses and chocolate covering smiling lips.     

         I rolled over on my cot with a groan, begging my body to drift back into listless sleep, back into the innocent dream world which almost never came now-a-days. It was getting to the point where I couldn't sleep anymore because of the nightmares. A rare good dream was like a block of cool ice in blistering hell. But I knew I wouldn't be able to sleep again, not now.    

         It was a lie. My dream was a lie. I couldn't remember my mother, didn't know if her hair was golden and her eyes beautiful blue. I didn't know if my father's eyes were always twinkling. I didn't even know if my hair used to shine as bright as a ruby or if I really was talkative as a child. All I remembered was the darkness, cold and bare, and the never-ending pain. So much pain. My back ached with it; my legs were never ending throbs. My stomach was always shriveled, like a deflated balloon. 

         The first few weeks were the worst for the hunger. I remember that when I first got here, I used to be chubby, with big full cheeks and flabby arms and legs. It was astounding and very frightening, watching that fat disappear in less then a month. I went from a healthy, if slightly overweight, child to nothing more then a bag of bones and flesh. Eventually, my stomach grew accustomed to the small meals I get everyday, until I reached a point where if I ever did get out, I wouldn't be able to eat any more then they serve me because I would throw it back up.     

          I've been here for at least four years, if the marks I carve into the wall when I get up every morning are anything to go by. I have no conception of day and night here in my windowless cell. Every minute that passed felt like hours, every hour felt like days. My mind was in a constant state of boredom. The only thing that kept me sane was the thoughts of my family. Because that's all they were; thoughts. They took any memories I had of my family, my life before this cell. They pulled any happy, carefree feelings from my heart, leaving me with just the fear and cold, a dry shell of a girl. A husk willing to do their every command, fear their every word, and never, ever defy them.        

          Or that's what they think. They try to make me weak and fearful, but I am not. They already have control over my body, but I will never give them control over my mind. They think by starving us, they keep us weak, unable to strike out. But they don't know that I've grown accustomed to the small meals, that despite my slight body, I am strong, for my mind stays untouched.        

          First, I will find a way to escape this cell.          

          Next, I will gather my strength.          

          Then, I will make them pay.