I’m writing to you from the confinement of my bedroom while my family have fun downstairs. I don’t know what I did wrong. Maybe I cook or clean too much? I’m not allowed down, so I’m sitting in bed, shrouded in my solitude. Even cats abandoned me, lured by the sound of an open can.
I can hear my family cooking something, and whilst I would like to help, I’m not allowed. It looks like they didn’t find me worthy to prepare pancake mix with them. My stepdaughter valiantly fights with the mountain of poo, cats tend to depose after the night’s rest. I know because I can hear her struggling and cursing
‘how does such a small assess can make so much shit?’
The scent of coffee teases my nostrils. I hope they will show me mercy and bring it soon as I’m starving. My stomach is rumbling, but I don’t dare to defy my master, who leaned over me today and caressed my face with his large calloused hands ordered.
‘Don’t you dare to get out of the bloody bed. You need to rest.’
I’m doomed, so doomed. Cut off my laptop, my lifeline to write the books. I can’t even check the grammar when I’m writing this slowly, punching into the tablet keyboard. All I have is alien smut books, and hope they will eventually feed me…
Send your prayers.
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