This creative writing was sent in
by a survivor who wishes to
remain anonymous

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I feel like a tiny mouse standing in the middle of a huge room with dusty, 
dirty brown floors, and a ceiling so high above that it makes me dizzy to 
look up.  I can't stop shivering, standing with my feet together and my arms 
across my chest.  I know there is a cat waiting to catch me, I can feel him 
watching me even now.  If he catches me he'll hold me up for everyone to see, 
for them to laugh at me, and tell me I'm a bitch.  The cat will torture me 
for daring to be there, but the nearest place to hide is too far away, and 
I'm afraid to move.  I think that if I just hold still, with my head down, 
eyes averted, no one will see me, no one will hurt me, and I'll be ok. I can 
hear the whispers around me, echoing off the distant white walls, and all I 
feel is the pain inside, and I know that I'm totally alone to face the cat's 
claws and teeth.  Alone, just like I've always been.

Don't ever look them in the eyes, they'll see the truth.  Don't share your 
feelings, they'll laugh at you.  Don't tell them about him, they won't 
believe you.  It's your fault if the cat catches you, you deserve what he'll 
do to you.  Why should you ever think it will be any different?  Isn't this 
the way the world is?

I want to run, but my legs won't work, they feel heavy, leaden.  So I scoot 
along the floor, feeling the cold, smooth tiles under my hands.  My hands are 
dirty, my pants are dirty, I'll get in so much trouble for that.  My heart is 
pounding so loud, and the roar of the other teens as they move from class to 
class, I can't tell where he is.  I pull myself under the gray metal stall 
doors, just to find myself in another long white hallway.  I'm so scared.  I 
scramble along the hard, chilling floor, breathing in the dust and grime.  My 
legs hurt, my chest hurts.  The few others who notice me just laugh and 
point, and go on about their normal day.  Where is he?  I know he's coming to 
get me.  I'm so tired, tired of running, of pulling myself along, getting 
bumped and kicked by the anonymous shoes and legs swirling around me.  Why 
can't I be like them?  My body is tired, my mind is tired.  This is the dream 
I have had, many, many times, for 23 years.

Why should you have any friends?  You're not a nice person, you don't 
deserve to have people care what happens to you.  No one cares where you are, 
what you're doing.  Stay out of the way so you don't make their life more 
difficult.  There is no cat, there is nothing except your own spoiled, 
self-centered existence.  Everyone knows it,  especially the cat.