This is my sanity screamed onto the page, a secret place where I
hide the last of my hope. This is what happened, what is happening,
and what might happen. This is my sword to strike back, and my
shield to protect me; this is my fearsome roar, and my gentle
smile; this is my cry of pain, and my steely defiance. This is what
I have become, and why, this is what I might be, and all the
endings that might transpire. What was done to me was monstrous,
beyond taste, beyond reason, beyond humanity, a horrific
experiment, with me as the laboratory rat. Dehumanising,
humiliating, excruciating. I wrote this story at the end of
tolerance, balanced on the edge of madness, tiptoeing along the
division of fantasy and reality. I live in fear, that the torture
will never end, that there will be no escape; terror that I will be
deformed beyond recovery or repair. I lived this book; survived the
torment, but not unscarred. We are all shaped by our experiences,
as I was shaped by mine. The experiment failed, but my will to
resist remains, as does my grip on the truth. I am bloodied but
standing, misshaped by the beatings, poisoned by the diet I am fed,
eroded by pressure and time; but I am alive, and not ready to
submit. This is my last shout for freedom.
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