It is highly unusual for a person of my stature to be writing down stories, for most of the time it is I who dictates onto others to do writings for me. Alas, this is a personal tale however, filled with details of my life for which I feel my workers and the new people in my life would be horrified to know, so for once it is I who writes down the tales which you may read, if this letter is ever lucky enough to be read by your eyes and held in your hands, both of which I probably will not see again for a long time yet. Once more, I am sorry for this, but this is the way it had to be; who knows what could have happened if I stayed in that place. But let us not depart from the original reason as to why I am leaving you this letter with such personal information, I shall continue and do my best to not stray away henceforth.

As you knew well, I was not born from the seed of the man we called father – I was adopted, by what at first I saw as a gentle, loving family. When I was told at the orphanage that someone wanted me, I was ecstatic. A large smile came across my face as I pondered over the opportunities I might encounter in this new family, who I was told was very wealthy and prominent. I didn’t have much of a chance to get to know this family, as I just imagined that any residence would be better than the orphanage, where the food was leftovers from the owners; the floors we slept on were wet and dirty; mice and rats infested the place; and the worst of all: the sounds of each child crying over having to live in that miserable place is something that has lived with me to this day – nothing will make me forget about the torment and depressiveness of those sounds. As of writing this letter, I still hear those sounds wherever I go.

On the eve of my 6th birthday I was taken out of the hellhole and was told that ‘my’ family had come to pick me up. My new family, that is. As I was put into the car, I felt like luxury. I had never experienced being in a car before, it was new and exciting. The thrill of going past sites, houses and people at a fast speed, it was incredible. I thought that only rich people could afford cars, until I came across the many streets where I found that the majority of families owned one; and now I was part of one of those families. After driving for what felt like only minutes, we went into the driveway of a giant mansion. It was incredible; it seemed to be the exact opposite of the orphanage. While the orphanage was dark, grey and lifeless, this mansion was bright, colourful and lively. It was hard to believe how I had been lucky enough to be chosen and brought from the abyss into this place of beauty and wonder.

My first week in the house was an ‘adjustment’ period, and the man we called father knew this. He tried so hard to make it as comfortable as possible for me in this new house: giving me special foods, buying me whatever I wanted, it was all new to me. I had never had the opportunity to get what I want, but more importantly, I had never received this kind of warmth from another person before. I almost resorted to tears of joy each night as I thought about the day that past, thinking about how everything that lay ahead could only be better. Much to my dismay, this display of generosity didn’t last very long, for after a month had passed, the monster within this master of our lives started to show; while this house seemed very lively and warm on the outside, it started to feel very cold and bleak on the inside, with the father of ours, slowly revealing himself for what he really was.