Ninety-two years. That’s how long I’ve been in hiding. Never once have I come outside of this black rusty hole of a cave, except for that one time when I was seven. Although vague, I remember that day, the day that my parents couldn’t look at me anymore.
As I stared into their glazed eyes, they could barely glance at mine. I couldn’t even look at myself so I guess I don’t blame them. These piercing black eyes could make even a soldier fall to the ground, I was a monster.
Eighty-five years later, I wake up everyday and pour myself a glass of wine. When I flop onto my rustic leather chair, I think about what I could have been. Other seven year olds want to be astronauts and scientists, and then there was me, standing in the corner drawing sketches of dark clouds and caves; look at where that took me! My head is filled with darkness and my brain is exploding with anger, there is no going back.