This is my sanity screamed onto the page, a secret place where I hide the last of my hope. This is what happened, what is happening, and what might happen. This is my sword to strike back, and my shield to protect me; this is my fearsome roar, and my gentle smile; this is my cry of pain, and my steely defiance. This is what I have become, and why, this is what I might be, and all the endings that might transpire. What was done to me was monstrous, beyond taste, beyond reason, beyond humanity, a horrific experiment, with me as the laboratory rat. Dehumanising, humiliating, excruciating. I wrote this story at the end of tolerance, balanced on the edge of madness, tiptoeing along the division of fantasy and reality. I live in fear, that the torture will never end, that there will be no escape; terror that I will be deformed beyond recovery or repair. I lived this book; survived the torment, but not unscarred. We are all shaped by our experiences, as I was shaped by mine. The experiment failed, but my will to resist remains, as does my grip on the truth. I am bloodied but standing, misshaped by the beatings, poisoned by the diet I am fed, eroded by pressure and time; but I am alive, and not ready to submit. This is my last shout for freedom.