It's been two weeks. I've been in this hellhole for two fucking weeks.

How do I know, you wonder? I have no calendar, no clock, not even any sunlight.

But every day I get two meals-breakfast and dinner. Every time I get dinner, I make a little mark on the wall marking that one day has passed. I wonder how

many more must pass before I'm finally free whether I be alive or not.

I don't even know which I would like to be anymore.

It's painful, not knowing when you might ever get out. The only thing that's worse is wondering who will be the one to provide you with food. If I'm lucky, I get

Clayton. He gives me decent food; a full sandwich with mustard if I'm lucky. If its not Clayton coming down the stairs, its not decent food. I get the leftovers of

whatever meal they eat upstairs.

I've finally learned the brown-haired boy's name. Its John. He does not like the fact that I know his first name. When Clayton first spoke it, he took his anger

out on both of us. Now it just seems to be me. Sometimes John will come down stairs and just beat me

Clayton will sometimes come down and stop it. I'm not sure why he hasn't beaten me yet, but I'm forever grateful. He doesn't talk to me, but at the same time,

I don't feel the hatred radiating off him as one of on the same level as John.

I haven't spoken in two weeks. The thought dawns on me as I hear the door open. Today I'm betting on John to come down. It's been three straight days of

Clayton-something highly unusual. My ears prick up and my heart races as I listen to the footsteps coming down the stairs. I low my eyes automatically to

the group, waiting for the beating.

I couldn't stand the suspense. I peaked up, relief flooding through me as my eyes rested on Clayton. He gave me a small nod and set my plate down on my

lap. The swelling in my ankle had gone down and he had ceased replacing the ice on it. I had tested out walking on it, and have managed a few painful feet

before I fall, and have to pull myself back to my original spot.

I don't want them to know I can walk. I have a feeling that as soon as I can walk once again, something bad will happen. I'm sure I will be killed or something

worse. I don't know why I'm being kept here, but I'm not risking it.

I waited for Clayton to walk back up the stairs, surprise filling my veins as I saw him sit down hesitantly by my bad ankle.

He looked at me, his eyes never leaving mine as he reached down and rested a hand on my shin carefully avoiding any bruises.

"How is the ankle feeling?" He asked, finally looking away

"Ok" I whispered, my voice hoarse from lack of use

He nodded "Can I talk a look?"

I mimicked his nod, biting into my sandwich. Clayton carefully unwrapped the towel that had remained tied up there for the two weeks. He set it down beside

him, delicately picking my foot up and setting it on his lap. I hissed slightly as he put pressure on the bruise.

"Sorry" He muttered, pulling away. I wiped away a stray tear that had come from the pain. It didn't hurt nearly as bad as it did before, but it wasn't very strong.

"I take it you haven't tried walking yet?" He asked. I didn't know how to answer. I was afraid to lie, but my gut told me not to speak the truth to him "I hurt all over" I whispered, looking away from him. It wasn't a lie; I honestly did hurt everywhere. The beatings I was receiving were very painful.

"I'm sorry. John is a little violent towards... uh..." Clayton hesitated "You know, girls..."

I opened my mouth to ask a question but thought better of it. I closed my mouth silently, not before he saw.

"What?"

"Nothing"

"Tell me girl" he said. Though Clayton wasn't awful, he would get demanding. I cringed slightly at the tone of his voice and opened my mouth again.

"Wh-what's wrong with g-girls?" I stuttered out.

"What do you mean?" He asked like it was the stupidest question ever. I looked down, ashamed that I had asked that. I didn't know why, but he

made me feel stupid when I was around him.

"Girls are the source of all evil. You're annoying, you can't do anything useful, and all you do is complain. The only thing you're needed for is to keep

the population going. That's why we haven't totally gotten rid of your kind" He snarled

"I-I'm sorry" I whispered, hoping he'd hear it. It sounded pathetic, considering I didn't know why he was so against girls

"You should be." He snapped, louder than intended "It's your fault that we're restricted to only one side of the world"

I must've looked confused for he gave me that look again. One that thought I was the dumbest thing ever.

"You're on the Boy's Side, bitch" he snapped. I cringed, not used to his name calling. It stung worse from Clayton. He was the nice one-the one that

didn't want to hurt me as badly. Why was he yelling at me?

I away, suppressing a sob that threatened to break loose.

He looked down at my lap, noticing my half-eaten dinner. Clayton looked back at me before standing up. Without a word, he walked away, storming

up the stairs.

I sat there, unsure of what to do. The only nice one had gone bad once he talked of girls. I was so confused. I thought guys were supposed to love

girls. Why did these two seem to hate us? And what was up with the split sides.

Questions similar to that buzzed through my mind all evening. I didn't finish my dinner, food was the last thing on my mind.

The next morning it was John who came down to give me breakfast. He glared at me, dropping the plate on the ground with a thud.

I avoided eye-contact with him, hoping maybe he wouldn't hurt me too badly.

I let out a gasp of pain as he kicked my stomach harder than normal. I curled into a ball, arms wrapped around the main source of the pain, moaning

slightly.

John left the basement then, slamming the door with a thud.