• They handed me a crayon.

    They handed me paper.

    I scribbled.

    There wasn’t much I was good for, really. I am small, tiny, insignificant in the big plan of the universe. There are no mirrors where they keep me, just white walls and paper.

    I’m not like them, not big or strong. I have to keep silent. The only power I have is in my mind, and I will use it when I need to.

    The man leans over me, smelling deeply of pollen and flowers that burn your nose, and says something. I don’t listen. I just want to stab him with the crayon I’m using.

    They’re fighting again. Calm words, yes, but the meaning is there. Acid tones and bitter thoughts make the air metallic.

    I sit. I draw.

    I don’t know their names. I call them by what I see. Flowers. Ice. Fire. Lighting.

    Fire sometimes looks at me with pity, but it never says a word. I sit. I draw. I think.

    I will be free, one day. I just need to know how. But one day, he'll come and set me free.