Day 687. Another scratch on the wall, another bruise on my skin. Another night of crying until I can’t cry anymore, and then staring at the soil-covered wall until I fall asleep. Another night of hoping I’m not pregnant this time. Another day I’m proud to say I lived through. Day 687.

This always happens to the pretty ones. The ones who wore their hair in long pigtails as little girls and carried Tweety Bird lunch boxes to school. It never happens to the loners who don’t have any friends or the losers who spend their days playing World of War Craft for six hours straight. It only happens to the girls who everyone knows, and everyone loves. It happens to the one who will actually be missed.

Alison DiLaurentis. A-L-I-S-O-N D-I-L-A-U-R-E-T-I-S. I’m surprised I still know how to spell it. I’ve been here so long I can’t count past the number ten any more. 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8, 9, 10. I write it in the dirt. Alison Marie DiLaurentis. I trace the letters with my worn-out fingers. I find myself tracing other names, too. Hanna Marin. Spencer Hastings. Emily Fields. Aria Montgomery. The chubby one. The brainiac. The goody-goody. The freak. Labels I probably created. Labels that stuck to the girls like the tree sap that covers your hands after you spend a day climbing the tall pine trees in the woods. I wonder if they’re still called these names. Does Aria still knit woolen bras? Does Spencer still make the honor roll every year? Does Hanna still eat everything in sight? Does Emily still kiss girls? I wonder, I wonder, I wonder. I wonder about so many things. Things I’ll never be able to actually know. Things that will always be an, “I wonder..” I wonder if I’ll ever get out of here. I wonder if these bruises will ever go away. I wonder if he got me pregnant this time. I wonder what I look like by now. I wonder.

I grasp the hard, concrete walls and drag myself to my feet. Soon I won’t be able to do this anymore. I’m getting so weak. I look down at my aching hands. They’re covered in soil and bloody blisters. Just grabbing onto the wall has made them even dirtier and bloodier. I inhale deeply, trying to gather up enough strength to take a step. I won’t be able to take this much longer. I’m surprised I’m not dead yet. I definitely feel dead. I shuffle my hard, callused feet across the filthy ground. They hurt even worse with every step I take. I take another hesitant step, wincing as my chain rattles behind me. The chain is what keeps me here. I’ve been tethered to the wall for so long now. I don’t have any sense of time left. The only time I see the outside light is when he comes in to rape me. The rest of the time, I’m stuck in this unlit room, all alone.

All of a sudden, I’m angry. Angry because he’s kept me here and done such horrible things to me. Angry because I couldn’t have prevented this, even if I’d tried. Angry because I actually deserve to be treated this way. I’ve done such awful things to people and I’d do anything, absolutely anything, to go back and change all of that. And then I’m running. Running away from this dreadful place. Running from all that I have to deal with. Running from him. I forget that I’m attached to the wall and my chain catches, yanking my feet out from under me. I fall to the ground with a loud thud.

Sitting up, I realize that my ankle is in excruciating pain. My hands grope for the source of it and I notice that my ankle and foot is covered in a thick, sticky substance. Blood. I’m familiar with blood. He only brings me to the shower every fifteen days. For the other fourteen, I’m bloody all over. But this isn’t the old blood, the dried stuff that’s mixed in with caked mud and urine. This is new blood. Fresh blood. I push my fingers underneath the metal shackle that’s around my ankle. There’s a long gash in my skin. It must’ve chafed and cut me when I tripped. I just have to let it bleed. There’s nothing else I can do. As I’m adjusting the cuff so it doesn’t rub against my wound, I hear a slight crack. I’ve never heard that before. Metal can’t crack..can it? I run a finger over the rusted material to find that it is indeed true. Running through the hard metal is a thin line where its surface is beginning to split. A few more hard blows to the chain and it should break. A few more hard blows and I’ll be free.

I crawl around the small room, searching for any rocks that might be lying on the dirt floor. I can use them to break apart the chain that is keeping me here. There aren’t any. I realize that the only way to completely break the metal is to repeat what I did to crack it in the first place. I stagger to my feet and then start to run again. Once more, I end up sprawled on the floor, my ankle throbbing. But this time it was on purpose. I inspect the metal. I was right. The crack is deeper. It’s going to work. Breathing heavily, I rise to my full height again. I do this over and over, the crack spreading and deepening each time I fall to the ground. I fall over and over again, the cut in my ankle getting deeper and deeper with each fall. I don’t care about that. I’m focused on getting out of here. Focused on escaping. Every time I feel myself hit the ground, I wish it was the last. This hurts so badly. And then one time, it is. I hit the ground…and roll. You can’t roll if you’re attached to a chain.

Now all that’s left to do is turn the brass doorknob on the wooden door in front of me. The doorknob I’ve never even come close to touching. When I woke up here, I was attached to the chain. He had just carried me through the door. I push myself up off the ground, standing up once more. I take a step. I’m not attached to a chain. I’m free. I reach for the doorknob, shivering when the cold brass comes in contact with my skin. This is it. If the door is unlocked, I’m out. I’ve escaped. I’m never going to see this hellhole again. I very slowly turn the knob. The door swings open. He never even bothered to lock it. He was the only one who came in, and the only one who went out. I couldn’t even touch the door from my position in the dark corner of the room. I take a hesitant step. I’m outside for the first time in a very long while. And it’s just like I remember it.

I’m running. Running past the trees in his backyard. Running past the fence that surrounds his home. Running past his house. He spots me from an upstairs window and I see his dark blue eyes widen. He disappears. A couple seconds later, he’s rushing out of his front door, yelling at me. But I’m too far away for him to catch by now. I’m still running. Running down the street, the pavement cutting up the soles of my feet. Running past huge houses with kids playing in their front yards. Running past long driveways with mailboxes at the end of them.

I run until I see a house I recognize. A gigantic, white house with blue shutters. Whose house is it? Mine? My neighbor’s? My friend’s? I don’t remember. I don’t care. I recognize it. Someone who remembers me must live here. I run up to front door, banging on it with my fists. I glance behind me. He’s still running. Running after me. I scream, slamming my hands against the hard wood of the door. I want to say words, but I can’t. I haven’t spoken in all the time I was there. He forbade me. If I uttered a single word, he would beat me. I learned not to speak while he was in the room. After a while, I stopped speaking at all. And now that I want to speak, I can’t. I don’t remember how to. All of a sudden, the words come back to me. I don’t forget anymore. I remember. “HELP!” I scream. “HELP ME!”

A girl opens the door. She looks a lot like Hanna. Hanna Marin. The chubby one. But it can’t be Hanna. This girl is skinny, and beautiful. Hanna wasn’t beautiful. I rush past her, into the house. I run straight forward, collapsing onto the large staircase. I pull my knees up to my chest, rocking back and forth. I’m safe. I’m okay now. He can’t get me. He can’t come inside here. The girl slowly shuts the door. She turns around to face me. Her blue eyes are wide and she looks scared. Horrified.

“Hanna, what was that?” comes a voice from the side of me. I peer over the tops of my knees, looking in the direction of the voice. Another girl comes into the room, followed by two others. The girl in front is short. She looks like Aria. Aria Montgomery. The freak. But Aria had streaks of pink in her hair. This girl doesn’t. She looks at the girl who opened the door. Then she looks at me. She has the same expression on her face as the other girl. Her dark brown eyes widen and she gasps quietly. The other two girls do the same.

Voices fill the room. Loud voices. Is that her? It can’t be her. It’s impossible. She’s dead. She can’t be back. She died. She’s not here. I’m dreaming. You aren’t dreaming; I’m here too. The voices get louder. It isn’t her. It can’t be. Who else would it be? Just some girl! Louder. it isn’t her! Give it up, Emily! It HAS to be her! Louder and louder. It IS! She’s DEAD, SPENCER! WELL, SHE’S SITTING RIGHT THERE! APPARENTLY, SHE’S NOT DEAD! So loud that I can’t take it any longer.

I scream at the top of my lungs, flustered by the noise. The voices stop. The girls turn around. They look at me. I think they realize that they were loud. The short one walks over to me. She kneels down in front of me and sets her hand on my knee. I shudder, pressing my forehead into my kneecaps. She takes her hand off. “Ali? Is that you? Alison?” Alison. Alison DiLaurentis. A-L-I-S-O-N D-I-L-A-U-R-E-T-I-S. I nod, shaking with fear. “It’s okay. I won’t hurt you. I’m Aria. Remember?” I nod again. “He’s coming! Coming!” I shriek, my eyes filling with tears. “No, he’s not. You’re okay. You’re safe.” I’m safe.

I’m safe. I’m safe now. It’s been a year since all of this happened. A year since I escaped. It turns out I was in a shed in his backyard for almost two years. They had people searching for me. But after a while, they gave up because they found my body. It wasn’t really my body. It was another

girl’s. He had done things to her to make it look like it was me. He. Stanley Adams. He’s in jail now. He’s going to be in jail for the rest of his life. I live with my parents again and I’m starting 12th grade in the fall. My friends have forgiven me. For the most part, that is. I’m starting to return to normal life. Normal as in the way it was before I disappeared. My life will never be normal. I go to a psychologist twice a week. I can speak in full sentences again. I know what comes after ten. Eleven. Eleven comes after ten. Aria doesn’t knit woolen bras anymore, but she does knit scarves. Spencer still makes the honor roll. Every single year. Hanna doesn’t eat everything in sight. She’s as skinny as ever and she exercises a lot. And she’s beautiful. Almost as beautiful as I am. Emily does still kiss girls. Well, one girl. Me. We’ve been together for three months now. The bruises did go away. I’m not pregnant. They say I will never be able to be. I don’t wonder these things anymore. I know them.