Am I dead to you?

I wrote this story my freshman year of college, 5 yrs ago. Please give feedback. Thank you!

Am I dead to you?

“’Ello luv.” She said walking through closed doors, the doors that she locked me behind. My hands trembled under that unforgivable touch of hate veiled to the world with love and affection. My shoulder dissolved under her hand, her eyes smiling at me through dark glasses. I could not see her love for I knew her hate I knew my frail body would cave in under it, eventually.
She came into my closed room and hovered over my drawings of crosses and blood over my poetry written on un-used toilet paper, for there were no animal byproducts here. Her voice loomed over me cutting through my thin soul, a knife could hurt me no worse now. “What don’t want to talk?” that innocent sickening voice.
I had not seen the polluted city for weeks, maybe months, I don’t know. She unlocked the steel curtains that bared my view from the outside world and the sun hit my eyes, sharp pains running through my head. She did not open these steel curtains to show me the world and give me something good, but rather to let me see what I was shut out from, where I could be.
I took a seat on my cot, and wrapped a holy blanket around my thin shoulders, beads of water forming in my sky blue eyes. I wished for rain, for God to cry for me, because I could not enjoy the sun and the green grass below my 37th story window. But before I could soak in the sun, and find strength in the beauty of the world the room developed into a dark puddle of nothing, for if it could not been seen from the outside nothing bad could be happening in it. I was again closed off from beauty.
“I will not give her my soul,” I remember thinking as she locked the steel panels on the windows again, but I didn’t know if I still had a soul either. I figured, I if can still write and draw and express myself I must have something inside my tiny existence as a human. But I suppose she heard me thinking, because she rose to her feet (I swear she had grown as she towered over me) and she spoke in her soft clean voice: “I shall have to take your pencils today, they need sharpening.” Now I would have nothing.
She walked over to the desk, a wooden crate, and stole up the pencils on the surface. Her red stiletto heels making the only music I had heard since I had been locked away. She eyed my drawings and looked at me as though I were mad. “You would draw death as well if you were locked away,” I thought. My eyes formed into minute slits and my face became a hard piece of matter. I would not let her see my pain, because I knew that is what she wanted.
She smiled at me patronizingly, her short skirt swishy as she moved closer to me. Her shoes tapping on the floor rhythmically with her perfectly timed steps. She put a hand to my head and ruffled my imperfect hair, while her flaxen mane bounced and danced. She was holding my tools for life, my pencils, but I could not let her see that I cared, for if I did I would never get them back. “Good Bye dear, I will see you tonight with dinner. I hope I don’t forget to bring back your pencils.” Her eyes penetrated mine and I could no longer look at her hypercritical soul, I began to vomit.
I don’t know if the sun was up when I awoke I don’t know how long I had been asleep, but I knew I was starving and a lone with my thoughts. I hadn’t seen her face in my dreams for once and I awoke happier than I had been for ages. I had the taste of throw up in my mouth and I didn’t have water to brush my teeth. My body was pale under my useless blanket and my scars turned purple with the cold. The sound of silence rung in my ears. I attempted to block it out, but there was nothing else to listen to. I couldn’t hear the cars in the street, or even my own knees creaking. I had given up on talking to myself because I only became bewildered and angry. I would not talk to Marla, my keeper; because I was her prisoner and she didn’t need to know anything about me! I couldn’t even remember what my voice sounded like, for I had quit using it. I went to my memories of singing every song I knew, and now I couldn’t remember how one went or the sound of my voice singing it. Then I heard the familiar sound of Marla’s heels clicking vigorously on the floor.
The door began to open I gaped at my one glimpse of the outside world; though it was only a cement hall, with “I” beams for a ceiling, much like my own cell. Her red pumps had changed this time to green, if I remember correctly. Her hair was bouncing in the usual manner and her hips swayed as she walked, the perfect sexy woman. I don’t even remember what I looked like. This time she didn’t speak; she had my pencils in one hand and a gun in the other. She laid my tools on the desk, and sat down on my cot. She was searching my face for something.
Her brown eyes met my blue ones (all I remember is the color of my eyes) and for one ever so brief moment I saw a woman. I saw a beautiful, confused, insignificant woman. Her soul was mine. I spoke for the first time. “Hello Marla,” my voice cracked from lack of use. I was like a 26 (I think) year old puppy that hadn’t grown into its bark. She gawked at my speech, for I don’t think she had ever heard it. “Your pencils are on the desk, go draw I want to watch you.” Her gun was lying to her side, but I didn’t dare take a chance, maybe I had won by speaking, maybe she would let me out if I only drew for her.
I approached the crate and picked up my tool. I began to etch out a cemetery, of Celtic Crosses, Crucifixes, and the dead flowers that relatives left on hollowed ground as they forgot their deceased loved ones. I could barely see for my heart was pumping rapidly and my eyes were watering, then I thought “Have my loved ones forgotten me?” “Am I dead to them?” These thoughts snuck in so suddenly that I could not even think of what I was drawing, and my pencil just grazed the paper having a mind of its own.
Now I am dead. As I left my earthly being I saw my drawing: two open graves, one with Marla’s name carved upon it, and a funeral, not at her grave side but at mine. Her body lay still and lifeless beside mine on the cement floor. I suppose the drawing was an omen for her to shoot and I am almost glad she did.