My life inside the camp

I know I can't be writing this but the world outside of my home is different. They're free. 

My fingers tremble as my smuggled pen writes shaky symbols. I'm writing a suicide note right here. A little leather book that will definitely get me killed. 

I will start from the beginning, how I ended up here; it was a cheerful morning, the sun shined through the window, and my mom woke me up with a hearty breakfast, one of the few. The day was normal, we praised Kim Jong Il, went to school, praised him again, and went to bed.

I woke up with a military man standing by my bed shouting. "you! Get out of your filthy sleep now!" Since when was sleeping filthy? Even so, I was terribly scared and got out of bed in my colorful nightgown. He harshly pulled me by the arm and into the family room. "Where's my family?!?" I yell as convincingly as I can while crying. "They've been taken away" he replies with a sly smile on his face. Tears drip down my face as he begins to bind my arms. I scream and kick but there's no use. I know where I'm going. The labor camp, to the north, all because of some idiotic family member. He eventually gags me after one last scream. He pulls me out the door and I know that was the last step I have in my childhood house.

Now I'm living in an old rundown farmhouse, and eating either scavenged rats or moldy rice every few days. I have I get out of here. Now! 

I attach the arms to the Barbie that a little girl will play with delight, not knowing that I was forced to build it with my starved, exhausted body. Barbie by Barbie my life shrinks away.

A little boy, maybe 8 or 9, walks up to me and carefully places a note on yellow tinted notebook paper into my calloused hand. My heart pumps, and even with all the torturous desire to read the note, I place it in my pocket.

I hide under the loose floor boards in the former farmers closet. I get out the note, now covered in dust, and read it, I can hardly read the scraggly writing. It reads;

Meet me at noon tomorrow. Farm closet (yes, I know where it is too). Urgent, escape.

This is my story, I know it's not perfect. But keep in mind I'm only in 8th grade.