Dark. Cold. Trapped. It's been like this for years. Ever since that day. It was my fault. I wasn't thinking. They hurt me. Constantly. Badly. My only control is through this diary. My only say is through these words.

Today Him came in. The ringleader. The one in charge. His name, unknown to me, to the rest. Him does unspeakable things to me. Again. And again. Him finds pleasure in it. Two years it's been like this. Two long hard years. Him comes in every Sunday, at what I suppose is the same time, always for the same thing.

I don't think I can take this anymore; I can't live through this anymore. It won't matter if I die. My family must have stopped looking for me. Must have given up by now. This is my final goodbye.