Three, two, and one. Sister Yvonne has told me the news. An old year has passed and a new year has come. How great time can be? I will now celebrate this great beginning of the new year, where many things will come for me and the rest of the world, by doing what I do best; stay inside of the bleak room I have been inside for as long as I can remember any of the memories that have happened before.

What I will be glad to hear regardless of the setting will be the adventures of the mind I take myself to be preoccupied with. The medication given to me and Sister Yvonne, despite not possessing any mental disease, was to erase any memory I had of life outside the "box", and of the memories, Sister Yvonne had in the times of that era so she could not recall those memories to me, as was said by you to Yvonne, Mama. You wanted her to know instead of her being clueless to bring her fear, fear that you turned your only two children into your favor.

Mama, you could have given it all just to me. Make me forget everything up to now to soften my hurt, just do not bring Sister Yvonne into your tricks. Yvonne is the gifted kind, the kind that I could have been had you not put me in this plain room.

The slot on the wall that peeks to the hallway is all I have to see her and to communicate to her, and how I get this letter like the other ones in the future outside for you to read, Mama, for there is no door to slide the upcoming letters through by a gap. At least I know you have done a fair job at working with the walls. She is the one that teaches me the words I use now.

Show me your heart, Mama. Your daughter, the one you call "the mistake", is hungry and malnourished. You have put me in this room for you to believe that I was not to be born from the start.

It appears that you wanted just one child when you gave birth to us, but you got twins instead. Out of your expectations not being there for you, you took me, the latter child, to isolation where I have not met any other human that is not you or Sister Yvonne, ever. I have never left this house or have experienced the outside.

Sister Yvonne has been sending me drawings of what it is like, but these mere illustrations are still not everything she sees captured on paper into a perfect idea. She is the only person I have ever seen personally, hence why I write these letters, and it is just the look of me but more healthily and cleanly. Sister Yvonne cares for me like the mother you could have been to me, with a chance that she could be "Mother Yvonne" instead.

This does not bother me in any way as she cares the most for me in hopes that one day I could get out of the room, though she has claimed this level of aid was "not according to the federal law as illegal but through my (Yvonne) perspective in being morally so" when she gives me bowls full of water, body wash, shampoo, and a towel for me to wash and dry myself with along with clothes of hers to wear. For me, my favorite was a black and orange striped sweater. It had a nice touch compared to the rest of the room, nearly colorless and would be prone to match colors not meant to be matched with. I could spend the time away sleeping, but what good would there be in sleeping when all I am is woke?

Without a source of time to tell me what hour or what day it is, I have never known whether it was night or day without Sister Yvonne telling me, not by words but by the tired look in her face. She would have dark circles around her eyes in some days as she stays up at night to finish a paper for school, but not as dark as my circles when my being decides not to sleep even when I try, or when she would give me a book to read, of study or a story. She would ask something like "Are you sure you do not want the book for longer? You can keep it if you would like," which is a kind offer but I return the books back to her because I do not want to read the same story so often that I would be bored of the story and that it would be wanting the spirit it had when I read the given story initially.

I would also like to get creative with the stories after I am done reading them by imagining what could have happened differently in the stories, had this happened before this or if this happened to avoid that. I would tell Sister Yvonne these stories and have a little fun with it, and she would always have this look where it was not much, but it was always a show of interest. She would rest her head on her hand with a smile that never lifted the cheek bones.

To my thought that she was not at all wanting to hear the tales, I asked her that she did not have to listen and that she could just get up and leave as she pleases, for it would not hurt my feelings if she were to. She gasped in response for she did not want me to think that she was bored with at all of what I do, but I guess it matters to her of anything, for she would want to spend every second she has with me. That is how much she loves me, and how much she would dearly disagree with whatever Mama thinks I am. My expectations to go after are that I will go far with the knowledge Sister Yvonne gave me, and that I will come out of this "box" as great and generous as she is.

—A.D.