I used to talk too much. At least, that's what people used to tell me. I loved math, and I talked about it a lot. I told my friends things that were so cool to me, but I also talked about myself too much, and sometimes I didn't listen to my friends when they were talking, because I just wasn't paying attention. I wonder if that was too selfish of me. I wonder if that's why I'm here now, because I talked too much then, so I have to make up for it. I used to get this feeling of deep joy from sharing the stories in my head, and I'm sorry that I took it so very much for granted now.
Back then I was in love with mathematical proofs. I liked how once I really understood something, the universe got a little more solid. I knew something, instead of just guessing or hoping or believing. That seems silly now, though. Now I know that people can think two different things at once, and they're both just as true, because they both don't mean anything. I used to hear people talk about that like it was a bad thing, either something silly that dumb people do, or something sinister that evil people make you do. But that can't be true. Thoughts aren't facts. They don't exist in the real world like trees or pigeons or ice cream. Every thought is a belief, and every thought is both wrong and right.
I can't remember the last time I had a real conversation with someone. I remember my last conversation in perfect detail, every single night in my cage. See? Two things, both true. Because I believe. But... I don't know. Not anymore.
I really, actually can't remember the day, or the week, or the year when I last saw sunshine, though. Sometimes I think I remember, but then I remember again and it's different. And then again, and again, until I forget what I was remembering. I like to play that game with myself, remembering, and forgetting, until it all washes away.
I miss looking at the sky. It was bright. I miss bright. I'm worried that I'm forgetting what bright looked like. I imagine the sky, or a supermarket, or a television, and I think that the picture in my head is what the thing that means "bright" looked like, back when it was real for me, but I'm scared that it's not as bright in my head now as it really was then. I've already forgotten so much... I wonder if it will hurt, when I forget what bright really looked like.
Some things that I forget, I feel happy about. I have no idea where I went to college anymore, and that makes it seem less real. When that memory vanished, it got easier to ignore what my future was going to be. I still think about it sometimes, but it's all vague flashes of being in classes, studying math, drinking warm bitter delicious coffee, and being with the man who brought me to the dark world I live in now. I don't remember his name anymore. I wish I did.
I lost my own name too, somewhere along the way. It stayed for a long time, long after I'd forgotten dad's name, and mom's name, and big brother's name, and what they called the place where I used to live. I still remember Buddy's name, but I try not to think about that one, and I hope I forget it soon. Dogs definitely don't live as long as I've been here. I hope Buddy becomes "dog" like the word that's missing became "college I went to" so I can have one less thing that hurts so sharply, and one more thing in the dim mosaic of hurt that everything else is. I could handle that.
I was eighteen, I know that. That memory doesn't change. I was in college. I had a friend, and he as cute. I can't picture faces that well anymore, either, not well enough to say which ones were cute and not cute, but I think he was cute. I think I was cute, too. Sometimes, when I can, I touch my own face, but it doesn't feel the way it used to look. I always wear a mask, except for when they put me in the box. The mask just feels like the mask, but my face always feels wet, either from lotion, or the sweat when I'm inside the box and it's so hot and I'm working so hard, or from the cum and the spit and the snot and the tears.
I think I'm a lot older, now. I know I was a lot younger when he took me. I loved him so much back then. He loved me, too. He loved me for my blowjobs, and my rimjobs, and the way my cock leaked when he played with it, and the way I pouted, and the way I kissed, and the way I screamed when he touched me and hit me and stroked me and fucked me and beat me. I miss how spontaneous he used to be back then. I miss when different things happened to me.
There's a schedule to my life, now, and it doesn't really change. Sometimes I think the things happen in a different order than they did last time, and sometimes they forget about me in my cage for a day or two, but those things are just part of the schedule. I counted off the seconds and the minutes and the hours in my head one day, when I had been here for what I thought, way back then, was a really long time. One one thousand, two one thousand, three one thousand, nine thousand one thousand, on and on until I hit a full day. I was really good at math, before. I think that's why I was in college, and I think that's how I met him, back when I remembered his name, but I don't know for sure. I don't know how many seconds are in a day now, but I knew back then. I think I trust what I knew back then. Enough to tell myself a story, at least.
I saw the place where I live now, once. The day he brought me here was bright and hot. I saw the big metal fence, and the cute old house, with a big green lawn and pretty trees, and so far up the big hill. I don't remember this part so well, but It's a story that I tell myself and I think it's still true. I don't know why I tell myself stories anymore. The memories just happen to me, like everything else just happens to me, and after a while they all stop being memories and become stories, and then they're always a little different, and I wish they would all stop.
