Because I think Sera is a great writer, and because I think Sera's story is one of the greatest old-school den stories, i'm posting entries from her blog here (the blog's sometimes difficult to read through because of it's page format). I'm sure you'll appreciate her writing as much as I do.

you're missed, ser.

---

I fought for months... years. I retaliated. I learned how to defend myself against those bigger, stronger and smarter than me. I learned to deal with pain, with sadness. I learned manipulation.

This place did not help me curb my violent ways; it just taught me ways to get what I want in life.

It was a few years into my time there... I stopped fighting. I gave up. I was almost catatonic.

I was about 12 at this time. It had been 3 or 4 years since I had been locked away. I had become weak. They had broken me... or so I thought.

I lay there at night, still shackled to the dank dirty bed, the stained sheets below me crinkled around my feet; I stared at the ceiling for days, hours.... listening to those howling around me, people crying in the night, people throwing themselves against the walls in vain hope of knocking themselves out before darkness set in.

It was at the age of 14 I snapped, I felt the change inside me, and I knew something was coming, something not quite right.

It was a cold night. I remember shivering for hours until I realized I had the blanket around my ankles, and as I struggled to pull it up to my chin, fighting the restraints around my wrists and ankles, I heard footsteps... heavy footsteps. I had heard them a thousand times before. It was often one of the hired muscles wandering the halls, creating or checking for chaos. They slowed as they reached my door... my heart jumped. I knew tonight was not like any other night.

As the lock on the door clicked over, my stomach began to churn. I closed my eyes, pretended to be sleeping in hopes I would be left alone or that I would wake up realizing it was just a dream.

He ran his grimy chubby fingers up my leg, along my shin. I tried my best not to shudder and thanked the cold night for causing me to pull the blanket up seconds earlier. I screwed my eyes shut and as he stood beside my bed. I hear the keys jangling from his belt. It seemed almost too cliché, too easy... It was...

As he pulled the blanket down from my body, my eyes sprang open, my body jerking. He realised I was not in fact catatonic, but very much awake. He clamped his fat hand over my mouth and pinned me to the bed. He was three times the size of me, if not more. I was rather small for my age... having being locked away most of life, minimal exercise and sunlight had kept me rather fairly tiny.

I lay there... I gave in and surrendered. I already felt worthless inside. I didn't have the fight in me and I couldn't do it... refused to do it. He began to remove the blanket fully and unhooked the flimsy medical gown they forced us to wear. It was here he made his first mistake; he unclipped his belt, and unlocked the restraints starting with my feet and then my arms. When he saw I wasn't struggling, he stopped and looked down at me, a stupid grin on his ugly puke-inducing face. He stood here for a few minutes just looking at me. I stared back at him. It was that grin-that face... it made me realize, this is not me. This is my mother.

It was then, I realized: I was not weak. I was not crazy. I just wasn't home.

I flew off the bed, grabbing the blanket as I did. The only thing his obese hand could grasp at was my hair, tearing a large chunk out as I made my way for the door. Keys in hand I ran, as fast as my weak legs would carry me. I could hear him and his sickening breathing behind me, following me as fast as his tree trunk legs would allow.

I don't know how, but I escaped. I made it to the street in nothing but a blanket.

Cold, alone, fearless. This was me... I was ready.