[ WP ] Write a journal entry for a child that has been abused ( mentally , emotionally , physically , spiritually , sexually , etc ) their entire life ... .

> Here's a plug for [ SCP-231 ] ( http: //www.scp-wiki.net/scp-231 ), and a shoutout to the writers at [ /r/SCP ] ( http: //www.reddit.com/r/scp ). This response is non-canon! 
 
 I've been trying to keep a journal, lately. Not one of pen on paper, of course- the restraints that bind me to this hospital bed ensure that. Just in my own head. Tracking trivial things like the length of my hair, how far my feet lie from the end of the bed, the number of bruises on each arm. Little, numerical facts to distract me from the dull, throbbing pain throughout my body, and the erratic stirring within my womb. I've also found that numbers are easier to remember, and I'm realizing more and more now just how important memory is. 
 
 I started noticing the blurriness a couple of days ago, I think. Maybe I've noticed it before, only to be forced to forget. A vagueness to certain memories, resistant to exploration or elaboration, and only a wall of blankness when I try to recall more. Deja vu, stronger and stronger each time I am taken from the bed by six strangers. Tied to the floor, sometimes, or tossed around like a toy. Focus on the deja vu, not the action. How many times has this happened before? Focus on the growing sense of foreboding, not the complaints of your flesh. What is it that will happen next? 
 
 Afterwards, my wounds are always sanitized and bound. No painkillers, but the IV is properly replaced, and they are ever so punctual with the feeding tube. They want me alive, I thought to myself, and the weight of memories unremembered echoed and strengthened that thought. For what end? 
 
 My body twists as something alive but sleeping turns inside me. And then I notice- my stomach is swollen, but almost entirely uninjured. Twenty-three bruises, seven scrapes, and eleven burns on my arms alone, but the skin of my belly is unmarked. Further, it has n't grown at all. A memory I managed to retain across several weeks was that the curve of my belly covered up only my fourth and fifth toes, leaving the others visible. 
 
 I am struck with the sudden instinct that whatever lay within me was the key to my salvation. An important memory, bringing with it a surge of hope... but it was not a number. I would lose it again, as I must have lost it so many times in the past. The sudden hope crashed just as suddenly into despair, and I shut my eyes, sinking deeper into myself, further away from my skin. 
 
 Within me a darkness waits. It is a deep and omnipresent fear, one that I've always shied away from in the past, but I feel, suddenly, that I am done hiding. I drift vaguely towards it, and a sudden pain spikes through my stomach. I bite back a cry- loud vocalizations will bring them coming, and they will only put me to sleep and take away my memory again. The darkness curls around my mind, evoking the worst of the memories I've had in the past, and ones from even before then- a dirty concrete floor, covered in a slurry of blood, urine, vomit, and other bodily fluids. Other girls, ornately decorated and artfully restrained. Soft weeping lost in chanting and groans and heavy breathing. Some dark presence speaking all these memories into my mind, daring me to look away, daring me to flee back to the bleak numbness of my clean white cell, and for a moment, I am sorely tempted... but memory. Memory is good. Memory will free me from this life... and so I embrace the bloodstained hell awakening within me. 
 
 The next stab of pain tears the scream from my lungs, and scalding, rancid fluid pours out from between my legs. Another explosion of pain brings another scream, this one colored with triumph as something strains against my body, crushing my bones and tearing my flesh. Several of them pour through my cell door, heavily armored and already firing, but I know, just as they know, that it is too late. 
 
 
 I am free.
