Hostage of Dolour

I do not even know my name, and my darkness is no metaphor.

I do not know where I am or where this place is. I remember nothing else beyond this dark room lit only by this laptop. I was here before ever there was such a thing as a personal computer. I was here in the candle-lit dark speaking to nobody ‘cept he who brought me food; he who took out the bucket and replenished the water. He spoke to me in English with the fewest words and the deepest loathing. I know there are more like him. Though I do not know why. Am I here because of who I would become? Would I have become what I am had they not imprisoned me here from childhood?

They watch me. I can hear the hydraulics of the CCTV somewhere high near the ceiling. That I do not know where I am gives them assurance that no matter what I say, nobody can find me; no-one can rescue me; save me. All I have is mere words. Yet I believe those words can save me. I believe mere words can save us all.

I have written the word in my novel as it came to me; as it was handed to my fecund imaginings. They have mocked me, saying, “Nothing will come of it!” and “The people of Dolour, they will never be free!” I am a denizen of this Nation of Dolour, that is all the man will tell me. Yet I have searched my connection here and can find no mention of such a place. So no, I do not know where they are keeping me. I do not know where I am. Though perhaps it does not matter for we all are who we are no matter where we exist? I only seek to share what sadnesses I have learned in this darkness as this Hostage of Dolour.

The Hostage of Dolour exists in places:

I would like so much to hear from you there dear friend, HoD..