'I am not going to cry.''I am not going to cry.'I chanted to myself as I lay curled on the cold, damp floor. They did not know of my past, of the traumas my father had put me through. At the age of five, he had his men build a small room at the back of the compound. It was dark, damp, and windowless, and every time he believed I had done something wrong, I was locked inside it. I was a tiny, helpless child, and I was terrified of the dark and enclosed spaces, and my father knew it. As I grew older, it made me develop extreme claustrophobia; so being confined in small, damp places sent me into a full-blown panic attack. I tried everything I could, all the measures I had been taught, but as the hours ticked by, my breathing grew more and more laboured. I started counting to get oxygen into my slowly shrinking lungs. 'One, two, three.'It's not working. My chest is getting tighter with each breath, and silent tears stream down my cheeks as I realise I am going to die here. No one can
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