• I must have looked like a caged animal to the other two people in my cell.

    Not that they were paying attention to me, Tim and Mr. Rouhler were busy recaping their lives, having missed each other due to the accident. Although I guess I can't call it an accident, not like they did it on accident.

    Anyway, back to me, we left off with me checking Tim out to see if he was ok (and checking him out doesn't mean...NO!), and he was, although like me he did have some trouble with the whole senses thing. But now I felt stuck, caged in, and Thanksgiving was coming up fast. I didn't want my parents thinking I was dead for Thanksgiving, that would be awful. However, I just couldn't see a way out of this. There were no openings, except the one for food and water which was always locked. The bars keeping us in were too small for even me to reach my hand through, let alone my companions. And there never seemed to be anyone around, except for the person we called "the feeder".

    Speak of the devil, there was the feeder now. We assumed that this feeder was a woman, although she was covered from head to toe in black clothing and paint. We could tell only by her, well, its figure, slim and shaped (if you know what I mean) like a woman. She never talked, never did anything except unlock the little door and slide through some water or bread. Little did I know today would go very differently.

    As she walked up to the bars, there was some difference, although it was miniscule. She was missing the normal black paint around her eyes, and her face was unmasked. She had brown curly hair and green eyes, as a matter of fact she looked nothing like a criminal at all. Everything else she was wearing kept her totally concealed though, and very unidentifiable.

    Until she spoke.

    Perhaps she thought that we wouldn't recognize her voice, and we didn't. Neither of the men seemed to know, or care for that matter, but I did care and I did know. But before you can understand who it was, I think a flashback is in order.

    September 1st, first day of my seventh grade year. I had a good idea of who I would like as my teachers, and who I would not, but of course, I was a nervous little kid in a big highschool. Maybe my english teacher saved me, maybe not. All I knew was that other than Mr. Rouhler, this was my favorite teacher, in one of my favorite subjects. She was a nice lady, with a little five year old girl. She was always nice to me, and when my dad would yell at me for some grade issue, she would stand up for me, kinda like I was her kid and not his. I did care about her, and I could tell that she cared about me, at least a little bit. Mrs. Tomas, that was her name, and she helped run a bunch of the school clubs, and was practically friends with everyone. Of course, as I said before she was an English teacher, she read aloud sometimes if our class was working together. And she had a great voice, it really made you feel like you were in a story, doing things with the characters. A kind voice, like a mom, or someone meant to help old people.

    I just never thought I would hear that voice outside of a jail cell.