The cell's walls were white, the floor was white, the ceiling was white, there was a slightly less white button that pulled out a toilet that allowed me to do my regular business. Meals appeared three times a day on a, you guessed it, white tray.

And it was all made of the same indestructible plastic.

I've tried to break out, of course I had, the place was indescribably predictable and boring and allowed no walking space whatsoever. I'd done everything from transforming into enormous animals to breathing fire to pounding at the wall until my hands were bruised and bleeding. It was no use, my life was stuck in this predictable, boring loop.

What was this stuff even made of?

I would gone insane if books hadn't come as regularly as meals. Realistic fiction, always realistic fiction, always with completely normal people. Usually they were a sappy love triangle story with a female high schoollers who didn't know just how beautiful she was. Again, indescribably predictable and boring, but they didn't have a lot of options, at least they kept my brain from molding into pulp.

This cell was probably the most secure thing I had ever heard of, and that included everything I've read. And that's saying something.

You'd probably be interested to know that all I did to get in here was to be very very special, and to be an avid book reader. I understand that they might have had to monitor me, take me in for regular sanity tests and to maybe even pass a few new laws for people like me.

Yet, they decided to throw me in here, and if this isn't going to drive me insane eventually, I don't know will.

"But Anna?" You say. "Why would all of that be necessary?"

Well, I'll tell you my imaginary friend. I gain the abilities described in any book I read.

You probably weren't expecting that.

Well.... Neither was I.

It started when I was small, I could grow my hair until it stretched across the house, I turned my Halloween pumpkins into carriages. It got more dangerous though, I almost poisoned my aunt with an apple when I was six, luckily my uncle gave her her true loves kiss before she died. My brother started turning into a beast whenever he started being bad.

It took awhile for my parents to figure it out, but by then I had shunned human company. At the age of ten I refused to leave my room, too scared that I'd hurt someone.

The only thing that brought me solace was books, Harry Potter, Lord of the Rings, Narnia, old and new, science fiction, fantasy, adventure. I read it all.

The more I read, the worse it got.

I walked out of my body and entered people's dreams while I slept, I cast spells and made things float in my room. After I learned where these came from, I taught myself to control these abilities over a course of ten years.

I'd taken a lot of classes online, but when I was seventeen I decided I wanted to go to high school for my final year.

It was pretty much just to try to get back into the hang of socializing again, I had already gained a ridiculous amount of intelligence from the books I read. There was no concept I couldn't understand, nothing was beyond my knowledge.

I figured I could control it, I mean, how bad could it be?

Worst. Mistake. Ever.

The years of isolation had done wonders for my level of sensitivities. Mind reading was among my abilities and I underestimated how the conflicting voices would strain me. All it took was one smart remark in the lunchroom and I accidentally caused an explosion. He probably didn't even mean it.

No one died thank goodness, but the government somehow found out that I had caused it. Three hours of questioning, two wrecked rooms and three hospitalized inspectors told them all they wanted to know. They asked me to please wait in a cell while they called my parents.

Yes, I was smart, but I was a teenager and part of me believed that they were going to let me back into my home.

Nope.

Out of all the books I read, none of them ever made me resistant to poisons. They loaded me full of drugs and shipped me off without even letting my parents know.

When I woke up, I was here.

According to my internal clock, I've been here six years. Six years of boring white walls, boring white meals and boring cliche books, nothing changed.

I'm twenty three, I've never dated, never had a boyfriend, never gone to collage or had a job.

What I've had is white.

Walls and walls of white.

That is, until today.

Today, a book appeared in my room. It's cover and title obviously showed that it was fantasy. Curious, I flipped through it, expecting every other line to be marked out with sharpie. It was unmarked.

My fingers felt a sticky note on the back, I turned it over.

And suddenly, my life got a lot more interesting.