If they’ve all gotten on with their lives. Not Dad and Mom—I know they must be missing me the way I’m missing them. But Charlene, Nick—do they even think of me anymore? Do they take a moment from the drama in their lives to wonder where I am? It’s been thirty-five days that I’ve been gone—at least, as far as I can figure. I make a new ball whenever I get up after a long sleep, and I count them whenever I’m too tired or depressed to do anything else. I’ve got to stop feeling sorry for myself. Stop feeling so lost. But I do feel lost. And forgotten. Every day I grow more desperate, more afraid that this will be the day he gets tired of me, the day when I feel his knife slice through my flesh—but so far it hasn’t happened. So I try to keep hoping I’ll get out of here alive. And I imagine what it’ll be like if I do. How I’ll be different. If I ever get out of here, I’ll stop judging people by how they look. It’s all a lie, anyway. Take Brian—he looks gorgeous, but he’s the ugliest person I’ve ever met.
