The brooding castle had overlooked our town since time immemorial. Its dark parapets loomed over us, perched high on the behemoth mountain so familiar to me. I had lived in its shadow my whole life.

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Now, I am living in it. I am its sole inhabitant. My only companions are the howling winds through the halls, the soft susurrus of the mighty oaks in the courtyard and the hollow haunting hoots of the parliament of owls that seem to enjoy the view. The deep, winding innards of this beast of a castle keep me occupied for days on end. Until they come. They flog me with whips and chains. They leave me senseless on the floor of whatever room they find me in, blood and tears mingling like a depression cocktail. I get up, I press on, I refuse to break. I pass the spot where I was beaten last fortnight. The blood has been scrubbed away by my hands, but the memories remain. No matter how far I wander these labyrinthine halls, they always find me. So, I often return to the castle proper and gaze upon the life I left, wondering when I’ll be able to return. I find a small parcel of food in the kitchen—beans and bread. Better than what I sometimes get.

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I take to painting the peeling walls of the rooms, with paints and brushes and rollers provided by my assailers.

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You know what they say. Do the crime, do the time. Only, I’m doing my time in a castle, mocked by the view of my home town, knowing my family looks up at the stronghold in an entirely different way they did during my childhood. Instead of an exciting enigma, it is now the fortress in which their son is locked up.