Frustrated, I stooped my way to the kitchen in need of liquid refreshment before I resumed the task of disposing of the Milton's remains; the olfactory effects of their decomposition was becoming intolerable.

I put Elliots' refusal to accept his parent's death down to his arrested development and his impaired mental state. And I guessed his talking with his mother was like a child would an imaginary friend. I reconciled myself to be more empathetic with him and was more determined than ever to secure freedom from our underground prison.

My throat was dry and I had a desperate thirst, but en route to the tap, the sight of something odd, stopped me.

Correction – the 'something' wasn't in the least bit odd, it was ordinary. How it got there was odd.

I called out, "Elliot, can you come here please?"

"Where are you?"

"I'm in the kitchen."

He bounded in with a returned boyish enthusiasm.

"What do you want, Billy?" He asked.

I pointed to the glass of orange Juice on the breakfast bar, "Did you put that there?"

He shook his head, "No."

"Then who did?"

"Father did."

I bit my tongue before my temper tore into him and I said with restraint, "I showed you, your parents are dead, you saw their remains, didn't you?"

He looked at me as though suddenly, I were the child, "Yes Billy. They are now my God parents, because they are with God now. And you are very naughty for showing me their bodies, their letter told you not to."

My blood cooled, "Elliot, who poured that glass of orange juice?"

"I told you, my father, my new father. He knew you wouldn't want something stronger because you prefer orange juice, he's poured you one before." He smiled and continued, "My new father told me that whenever you look like you've seen a ghost, I've to pour you an orange juice." He lifted the glass and handed it to me, "We're to look after each other now, Billy. I'm going to try and be more grown up so I can look after you properly," he said, like a kid pretending to be an adult.

My blood chilled as my mind wandered back to the night of my dismissal and pub visit, "What's your new mothers name?" I asked, recalling the woman who stopped me at the door.

He looked confused, "Mother, she's called mother, don't be silly Billy." His face took on an exaggerated caring expression, "She knows all about your clostro-thingy and my phigero-thingy; she says we're like two peas in a pod with our foby-thingy's."

He lifted a finger and wagged it in my face, "Mother says that, 'You owe me a prayer.'

As I began to make sense of these revelations, my heart and hope soared. Because now I knew I could confront these criminals, these misguided people, and get the hell out of here and back home to a life full of fresh air, hopes and dreams.

I looked at Elliot, smiled and said, "Amen."

......

It's Billy, here.

This is my epilogue.

I wrote what preceded this in the past tense, with hindsight and hope. The hope that I'd soon be free and with the clarity and understanding that comes with hindsight.

I wrote it with relish and flourish, with my future in mind. I wrote it as a: document, memoir, a narrative that best conveyed the horror of a past I'd inadvertently walked into.

Reading it back, I find it a rather bleak narrative; yet it was written with a spirit of optimism.

I was always optimistic that my freedom would be 'when' not 'if.'

But I'm still here, with Elliot. This is my present.

I write this without hindsight and just a little hope. I write this right now: a man diminished.

Like Elliot, I no longer have any concept of time. When day and night are taken from you, how do you know what day, week, month or year it is?

In the early days, I tried to escape many times. But over time, a diet lacking in protein wasted my muscles and a lack of calcium weakened my bones. They diminished me physically, stripping me of the personal weapons necessary for a fair fight. In short, they did all they had to, to ensure they fulfilled the Milton's wish that I become Elliots' 'Forever Nanny.'

Elliot and I have no mirrors down here. But in his face, the passage of time is reflected back at me: he's old now, almost as helpless and needy as a newborn baby.

I often smile at the irony as I feed a drooling and dribbling Elliot – at least my training, as a male nanny didn't go to waste. I turned out to be a very capable Manny. My mother would be proud of me, if only she knew what became of me.

Sometimes, when I'm feeling mischievous, I think to myself, 'If I die down here, I'll ensure my soul returns to the Elliot Doll, and I'll play merry havoc, haunting all those who had a hand in my enforced burial.

But as Elliot too often says, that's me being – "Silly Billy." Or is it?

More often than not, I mourn the death of my dreams. Not the sleeping ones, the waking ones – the daydreams that motivate the young and free. Dreams of: love, laughter, marriage, family and success.

The girl of my dreams, stayed in my dreams. I've never experienced true love.

Gosh, I sound despairing, don't I?

That's because I am.

When I re-read this passage from the Milton's letter, my despair grows: 'We have to be realistic to the fact that our supplier may become indisposed. If this happens we have provided two pills, which will accelerate your death...'

By 'indisposed' they mean the 'death' of those who supply us with our limited life giving nutrients – food.

It has been too long since Elliot and I received our last supply of food and drink. I suspect his 'new' parents are no longer with us. Truth is, I believe they're now dead, past tense. There can be no other reason for their no show.

But Elliot and I are still alive, still present, for the moment, at least. We are hungry, but the tap still delivers water and our thirst is quenched.

Right now I'm following in Mary's steps, the nanny who lived and died before me. I'm re-tracing her final walk toward the Heaven Pill.

I'm staring down at the two pills that will end our lives.

Realistically, I'm not sure Elliot will be able to swallow his. His life is almost over, anyway.

I know I can swallow mine. I pick it up, feel it and brush it against my lips. My belly roars, telling me this little piece of chalky roundness offers release from this hungry hell.

Hope? Believe it or not, I still have a little of it left. It's always important to keep hope alive.

I pause the pill at my lips: what if?

What if: we are finally discovered, buried here, underneath the Lavender tree?

At the last minute: we are saved?

What if: I get another chance to feel the healing of my mother's hug? Assuming she's still alive.

Even in these last moments, I still hope and pray that this epilogue doesn't become my epitaph...?