365 days. A year. Stuck in this cellar. Being fed a piece of stale, rock hard bread every... well whenever they remember you exist.

You don't know where you are. It's too dark to tell. It's always been too dark. You can only tell when a day passes by a small hole in the ceiling. It's freezing. Surprising you haven't died from hypothermia. But when you use dead peoples flesh for warmth, it's hard to imagine anything else but the smell. It's terrifying to walk around this cramped cell, feeling sickening crunches from the bones below you. Piles.

Your lucky to be alive this long. Only surviving off little food and water. And it's all because you were found in the comfort of your own home. Going from playing with toys, entertaining yourself with TV or playing outside, to being locked up, sleeping, or in a corner speaking to yourself. It was a war. Always. Its always a war.

Light shines through, nearly blinding you, the heavy stone door opening. Usually it's only to throw stale bread or a bottle of pond water, this time its a guest. Someone new. A new prisoner. You're not by yourself. He gets shoved in, he's much bigger than you, nearly knocking your tiny body over. You can hear him slam into a pile of bones, looking over, you can see a skull mask for just a glimpse until the door slams, back in darkness.

"Where the hell am I.."

This strange man mutters. What could have been peaceful childhood memories, to what could have been your own death. This is your reality.