He hasn't come downstairs today, or yesterday. I think something may have happened to him. Judging by the last seven years, he should be down here by this time at night. I feel strangely hopeful, but I don't allow myself to hope – I can't allow myself to hope, not anymore.
These past years have been like a dream; a continuing nightmare that never ends, but instead keeps eating away at my flesh and my soul, every single day. It is as if I'm dying, but so slowly and so painfully, it's like I am watching my own body decay and turn into a numb, empty, rotten vessel.
This diary has been my only solace ever since that God forsaken day when he took me. About a year later, he gave me this diary, hoping it would be "a good outlet for my anger, fear, and sense of abandonment". Fucking psychiatrists, right? At daytime, he repairs other people's lives and minds, and at nighttime he corrupts mine to the point of no recognition.
This dairy is my only friend down here in this basement – has been since I was seventeen.
For years, I've written such hopeful things. I've written about staying positive, about holding onto life, about giving thanks that I was still young and there was still hope for a life after this. But as I said, my spirit has been broken beyond recognition.
I've never written about my attempt to escape. It was a few months ago, and he had been particularly cruel the night beforehand. I decided nothing was worth this, even if he killed me. So when he came to deliver me my breakfast (always a healthy, balanced one), I threw the tray at him and tried to make a run for it.
It obviously didn't work, and he took one of my fingers for it, as punishment. And I can still feel my finger there, even though I can see it isn't and the wound had closed a while ago. I still feel shooting pains through it.
He said if I ever tried to run away from him again, he would just cut off more limbs, or torture me, make me suffer like I never have – but never kill me. I think that was the line that broke me.
But still, he hasn't missed one night in seven years, and now he's a no show. I can't help but think – maybe someone finally noticed, or heard something. Maybe he had a fucking heart attack and some neighbor is going to find his body soon, and then find me.
There was a strange smell, too. I've never smelt a rotting body or anything, but I suppose it's something as bad as this. This basement might be sound proof, but I can still smell it through the isolation.
I hope to God that bastard is dead. In fact, I hope he suffered.
Someone's been banging on the basement door for a while now. I've tried to bang back and scream that I'm here, but strangely, whoever is banging isn't answering. They're only making strange noises.
What if whoever – or whatever – killed him is coming for me now?
And the smell is getting stronger by the minute.
Either way… this nightmare is over now. At least that.