To you, the baker.

You might remember me from when I was a child. My family actually. My mother, she was pretty woman. A twinkle in her eye would enlighten everytime she spoke, a strong ember. My father, who back then, was still the con artist he will always be till his dying day. The man who acted as the perfect father, husband and a successful business man that the entire city sees him as. Even his own wife and son were tricked. And me. The round faced two-year-old, eagerly grabbing the iced bun that my father would buy from you, my childish laugh would bring a smile to your wrinkled face.

I am now 14 years old. You wouldn't recognise me anymore. Do you ever wonder what happened to me? To my family? Yes, Marcus Highland is still the most successful buisness in the United States, but no one has seen him or my family for years. Yet he his buisness is still operating, the Highland Corperation being number 1 on the US charts, although no one actually has seen us for years.

When I was five years old, that is the day that my world was changed. The day my mother found the dark secret my father had so well hidden from the world. She confronted him, maybe the worst decision she could make. And so, my fathers incredible con-artist skills, they dissapeared, only for my mother and I of course. My mother and I, held captives in our own house. The horrible memory of watching my father rape my mother, and if she resisted, he would threaten to tie me up making my mother watch me die, her being next.

The time had passed on, and my mother and I malnourished but the twinkle never left her. She is the one who has taught me to write the words I am currently putting on this page. My father would leave a candle in the corner of the cellur. "So I can see your faces, how scared you actually are." My mother would hug me tight when he would say this, and I would bury my face into her chest. He would leave, bolting the door with us no way to escape. Every night when he would leave to attend to his business, she would whipser the same thing. "One day Elijah," she would tell me, running her hands through my uneven knotty mob of hair. "Some one will find us. We just can never lose hope. One day, our story will be told. And that is why you will learn to write."

And then came the fateful day where my mother had grown to weak. To weak to keep holding on. She was sick, being raped for hours on end each day by her pshyo husband. I remember that day too well. I was nearly eight years old. My father had was standing near one of the walls in our confined captivity. My mother, her eyes torn and broken with pain. She started to look uneasy and fainter then she already looked. I stood up, intending to go to her, wondering why she had collapsed yet my fathers course voice echoed. "You move and I tie you up for a week." The silence reigned on. I remember how my mother stared at me and I knew to stay put. I kept one eye on my father, one on my mother. She tried to open her mouth. But she collapsed. That was the day, the ember went out.

My father looked down pitally at her and kicked at her. She was a rag doll on the floor, lifeless. I remember the shock, reaslising she is gone. I know if I cry, it will be worse. My father spun around, smiling evily at me. "Now boy, he said with a smirk that gruelled at me. "Now, it is your turn."

For seven years, he has tortured me. Daily beatings, being raped, the unthinkable just everyday. Until last night. He let his guard down.

I knew this was my chance. To escape of course. My father had been down with his belt, and I knew the drill. I lay down on the cold cemented ground, my skin being practically sliced everytime he hit me. "Up!" he growled at me and I obediantly roll over, jumping up as I know if I don't I will get kicked. He looks at me with a evil grin and comes over to me, undoing his belt. You can guess what comes next.

A few hours pass until he finally lifts himself up. "I'll be back," he says grogily, the strong smell of alcohol on his breath.

He stands up, pulling his briefs over his hairy legs. I lay on the floor, staring up at him exhausted, no energy to respond.

This was my chance. I hear him go up the stairs that lead to the main part of the house. But he didn't lock the door. I stand up cautiously, peeking out the doorway. I know the house from the back of my head. My insticnt took over. I ran.

From reading this, you know I escaped. I now am writing this at the edge of the park. I am free, I could start my life over, I could go to the police and get my father arrested. But I have given up. For me, I want to be with my mother.

Now on to you. The Baker. Of Treats 'n' Things on Wilmont Street. You are the only person who knows my story. Knows the real truth about my father. And what life has been for me and was for my mother too.

Are you going to do anything? Or are you going to throw this note up, into the trash and pretend that you never read this. If you do, that is best, but I needed to tell someone, and you is who I trust.

The power is in your hands... What will you do with it?