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Dear Diary,

 

I do not know. I don't know anything. They told me its better this way.  This way my mind would have nothing to ponder on but the words I have to write.  I am kept here; a prisoner to so much I don't know, so much I don't understand.

The floor is cold.  It sends shivers up my back, and I can feel them in my mind.  So much empty space in there, it seems.  My dark hair is dirty.  It lies limply down around my shoulders.  I don't know how long I have been here.  The rags that cover my body scream ‘too long.’  Sometimes it feels like years, and others minutes.  It has been maybe only hours, however, since they chucked this blank book at me.  The pages held nothing.  All were pure white, a clean I fear I have not seen in some time.  It is quite beautiful however; the words "Diary" leafed with gold.

Such a delicate book.  As I held it in my shaking, dirty fingers, the dominating figure stood in the door of my prison.  His voice pierced all that was left of me for the darkness that enveloped all detail in his form and face brought another wave of chill through the small cell.  "You are now a Writer," his voice echoed off the dirty walls, "In this book, you will write everything you see. Every detail. Every word."

His shapeless eyes seemed to look straight through my onyx ones.  He continued by adding, "You must never turn away. Never try to ignore what you are seeing.  If you do not follow these instructions, you will be killed.  We are a dominant and powerful race, Silo.  Your words will make sure that we are never forgotten; that we live... forever."

Silo.  Silo?  Is that my name or is it a name they have given me? It doesn't feel familiar.  It doesn't feel like my own.  My eyes held so many questions as the door was once more slammed and sealed.  I could feel his footsteps through the ground as they faded away.  Opening up the book once more, the blank pages seemed more ominous.  In fact, they weren't as blank as before.  On the back of the cover, in scrolled handwriting, it read, "Writer: Silo."

My fingers traced the ebony indents.  Was that there before and I just hadn't noticed it?  My eyes scanned the dark concrete room I had looked over a thousand times already.  Something is different though.  More details seem to be making the trip from sight to mind.  It feels almost like a sixth sense.

And that is when I write this now.  Whoever may read this, I pray I live to finish these pages.  I do not know what is to come, or what words my hand may have to weave to keep my life, but I will do what needs to be done. After all... I am a Writer.

 

 

Until Then,

Silo

Reviews

[Kelley]

This part was great Alexa ! I can't wait to read more.