Personal Narrative: Loss Of Personal Identity

Days pass until I see him make an appearance while I’m fully conscious. By counting the meals he’s left on the nightstand, I’ve determined that I’ve been in here for at least a week. I can’t say I’ve been treated very badly, I mean, he feeds me at least twice a day, and he allows me to have a bed to sleep on. That is more than most abductees acquire, at least, in the movies and television shows. I can’t speak for those taken in real life. He still hasn’t told me who he is, which I find odd. You’d think he would have told me his identity by now, considering he doesn’t plan on me going anywhere. To be honest, I’m not sure if he ever will. Perhaps he will later on, when he thinks that I’ve warmed up to him and won’t attempt to escape at …show more content…

I figured if he only came while I was unconscious, that the only way to confront him with the questions I have is to fake it. At first, I let him set the plate down. Then as he turns to leave, I sit up in the bed and say, “I have some questions.” At my voice, dry from the lack of hydration, he turns, startled. “What?” “I said,” I clear my throat, “I have some questions that deserve to be answered, since you’re keeping me locked up in here like a patient in an insane asylum.” “No,” he immediately replies, turning away again. “You don’t deserve to have anything answered; not until you start behaving yourself.” His voice is bitter, like he had just swallowed a lemon. Does he really expect me to fall all over him after he killed my mother and threatened the only person I cared about? “Behaving myself? What are you, my dad?” His eyes flash dangerously when I finish speaking. “Don’t start with me again. It won’t end …show more content…

“Why can’t you just tell me? Why is it such a big deal?” This time, he grips my arm with his fist and throws me to the ground. I feel a slight pain where my arm connected with the floor, but try to brush it off. “Stop asking me who I am and think about it! I’m sick of your questions!” “But—“ Just as I’m about to reply, he kicks my stomach, which releases a blood-curdling scream from me. Why is it that every time he kicks me somehow manages to injure my ribs? “Shut up!” “I—“ He kicks me again, more forcefully this time. “Stop!” “Stop kicking me and—“ Another kick stops me from finishing my sentence. “Do you know how to shut up at all?” I push my hands in front of me to block his next kick. “Please, just let me say this one thing.” When his foot connects with my stomach again, it sends blood spewing from my mouth. “I don’t want to hear what you have to say, Melanie! I didn’t kill your god damn father!” The metallic taste in my mouth is getting harder to ignore. I swallow the most blood I can before saying, “Then who did?” His eyes flash dangerously. “You don’t want to know the answer.” “Please,