I am a body. Not a person.

A person is free. A person can act and speak however they choose to. I am not allowed to act nor speak, and so I am not a person. I am a body.

I cannot act, because I cannot move. My wrists and my ankles are chained down to the metal poles of the bed frame. I am only able to move when he unchains me to put me in a new position. During this time, I am also not a person. I am still just a body, because I choose not to move; if I resisted him, he would beat me until I stopped, and so I do not move.

I do not speak, because he does not allow me to. If I speak, he beats me until I stop. In the beginning, I tried to speak. I was afraid of him, so I tried to speak without angering him. I begged him to stop, but he ignored me. I commanded him to stop, and he beat me. I called him by the words my father used when he was angry, and then he beat me viciously. When I stopped speaking, he stopped beating me, and so I learned not to speak. I have made several attempts to reason with him, but he ignores my words and beats me even when I speak gently.

I am just a body. An object. I can think and draw breath, but I cannot act or speak any more than the bed I lay upon.

Everything in this room belongs to him, including me.

I am property. I belong to him. I am one of his possessions. Just like the lamp, the table, and the bed. I am just another stationary thing that cannot communicate. He can use me whenever he desires. My body does not belong to me; it is his body. His property. His toy. His plaything.

I can still recall what it was like to play with toys. My father tried his best to find new toys for me whenever he left our shelter to look for supplies. When I asked him why I never saw him playing with toys, he told me that adults do not have toys and do not play, because they are always busy with important adult things. I told him that I never wanted to become an adult, and he just smiled gently and told me that I didn't have a choice in the matter. My father was kind, but he reminded me very often that the world is a very unfair and unpleasant place that is filled with bad things which cannot be changed. He told me that he was protecting me from most of the bad things in the world, and that's why I had to stay in our shelter and never leave. I was happy in our shelter, because the outside world seemed so scary, and because my taught me new things every day. He seemed to know everything in the world.

But he was wrong when he said that adults don't have toys and don't play. I am a toy, and my owner plays with me every day.

Father told me about sex. When I asked him where people come from, he told me that men and women have special body parts for making children. He told me that most parents hide the truth about reproduction from their children because it is considered embarrassing and rude to talk about it. However, my father never hid anything from me. He explained to me that all people experience an urge to have sexual intercourse, and that some people are obsessed with it.

My father warned me that there were people in this world who have no respect for other people, who would kill another person to obtain that person's possessions. He told me that these people are called Raiders. He told me that Raiders have only one use for a living person: slavery. He told me that slavery is when you are not allowed to act or speak, and have to follow orders at all times. He told me that if Raiders capture a woman, they will force her to have sex with them. He said this is called rape. He said that rape is the worst thing you can do to a person. I asked him why rape is a bad thing if sex is supposed to feel good. He said that sex doesn't feel good if you don't want to do it with the person you're having sex with.

That explains why I've never felt good during sex. My owner has had sex with me hundreds of times, and each time somehow managed to be more painful than the last. I thought that I would eventually become numb to the pain, but that day never came.

I remember asking my father if rape was worse than murder, and he said that he didn't know. I don't know, either. I do know that I hate being raped, and that I the man who rapes me. I hate him because he killed my father, and because he is cruel enough to rape me every day. I hate him because he is so violent and rough with me. I hate everything about him, from his ugly face to his bad breath to his greedy hands, always touching me and always rough. The nicest thing he does for me is feed me nasty gruel and dispose of my waste, but sometimes he forgets to do even that.

I want to spit his food back in his face. I want to relieve myself when he's raping me, to disgust him. I want to hit him when he unchains one of my hands to put me in a different position. But I don't spit at him, I don't try to disgust him, and I don't try to hurt him. I know that if I did any of these things, he would just beat me. And I am also afraid that if I displeased him, he would kill me.

If I refused to eat his food, or found a way to suffocate myself, or made him angry enough to kill me, then I would die. If I died, then I would never be raped again. Death is the only way that I will ever escape him. As long as I am alive, I will be raped.

But I don't want to die.

When I asked my father to explain death, he said that when something dies, it never feels anything ever again. It cannot think, or see, or hear, or smell, or taste, or make a sound, or even move. When an animal dies, it becomes a body. And a body is just an object. A thing.

My father also told me that there is nothing after death. He said that some people believe in an afterlife, a world that your mind travels to once your body is dead. But, he said, these people are wrong. My father told me that the concept of an afterlife is just a lie that helps people cope with dying. He said that people feel better about death if they think death is not the end of everything. But my father promised me that he would never lie to me, and so he told me the truth; he told me that there is nothing after death.

I have already become an object, because I can not act or speak. I have already lost my status as a person. But I don't want to die, because death would be even worse. Death means that I will never feel or think, ever again. I am a body, a thing. But I am a body that can think and perceive the world around it. I am grateful for my life, and so I refuse to die.

With that said, my life is not very enjoyable. All of the senses I am so grateful for grant me no pleasure. I have been staring at the same ceiling, walls, and floor for as long as I can remember. There is nothing for me to smell but my own waste and the body odor of the man who rapes me. There is nothing to listen to, except for his grunting and heavy breathing. There is nothing for me to taste except for his repulsive gruel. The only sensations that ever grace my skin are the chains at my hands and feet, and sharp pain at the most sensitive part of my body.

I am not sure how long I have been in this room. I do know that when I first came here, the stench was overpowering, and my senses were overwhelmed. But now I barely notice the stench, or anything else, for that matter. Nothing means as much as it once did. Nothing is important anymore. Nothing in this room feels special to me. Everything is just...there.

When I go to sleep, sometimes I dream of my father's death. Sometimes I dream that I am being raped. When I am raped while I am awake, and raped in my dreams, it is hard to tell when I am awake and when I am dreaming.

I have difficulty recalling how often I am raped and how many times it has happened. Sometimes it seems to happen all day long, and sometimes it feels like days have passed since the last time. It is difficult for me to concentrate on anything anymore.

I have not accepted my new life, but I have acknowledged what I have become. I was once a person, but now I am a body. I have become an object that has feelings. If I died, then I would have nothing at all, and so I will continue to live. To continue my life means to lie here on this bed, where I will be raped every day.

I have begun to ask myself whether a life of pain is better than no life at all. The ability to experience sensations is a gift that inanimate objects would envy, if they could. I would throw away that gift if I killed myself; and yet, my life is nothing but pain and torture. Is life truly a gift, when there is nothing to enjoy, and nothing to look forward to except for pain?

And, so, I have realized something.

I do not appreciate my life.

I do not want my life.

I hate my life.

As I listen to the door of this room slam shut, as I feel hot tears pour down my cheeks, and as I feel blood seep out from between my legs, I make the decision to end my life.