To the hijacker,
There is a place up in the hills I used to escape to. When you went out, when you were asleep, I used to slip out of the cuff links that chained me to the bed (my hands were so skinny by that point that they just slipped out), and run up onto the moors. It was desolate out there, lonely. The wind blew around, but not in the romantic movie kind of way. It was more like the howls and gusts were trying to suffocate me, like they knew who I was. I was your slave, your prisoner, whose only purpose was to serve you. Every wish, every command I was forced to abide to. But up there, despite the dead trees and bitter winds, it seemed peaceful, it seemed gentle. I could see for miles, just the barren wasteland you had taken me to. And then I realised: there was still a part of me that had hope. You had ripped me from everything, but there was still a part of me that was peaceful and gently. And up in those hills, that part of my soul came alive.
I used to care about things. You took that away from me. I used to think about people. You took that away from me. I used to be able to feel, feel something, feel anything. You took that away from me.
But not in the way that I thought. Not in the way that I used to think. You took so much away, you ruined everything that meant something to me, but I did get something in return.
I gained perspective. And for that I thank you.
The Escapee.