Nietzsche on his Balcony by Carlos Fuentes

You wanna save me, Mr. Neachy? You've sunk lower than low. And I am rescuable, Mr. Neachy. I don't know what you heard about me. Must be something interesting to make you come here looking for me. I bet you don't know anything about me. An abused girl. A girl worthy of help. Open to receive your teachings and put them to the test, Neachy. What do you know? My earliest memory is of a closet. They locked me up in a closet. They starved me to death. Know what they fed me? Soap, Neachy, they fed me soap, and I ate it with pleasure, with enthusiasm, with gratitude, with resignation. You know how I know those words; they're your words; you use them all the time. Eating soap was cruel and humiliating, you gotta understand. The soap laughed at me because it came out of my mouth in bubbles, cackling while I felt like shit, cornered in the closet, eating soap with humiliation and poverty while bubbles floated from my mouth, dying of laughter, probably grateful that I didn't swallow them like the rest of the soap that slipped down my throat, cleaning me, Neachy, washing my insides.

And this happened to me while I was alone, that was the best part of it. Because as soon as they opened the closet door, and they appeared, I trembled, I was afraid, and for a moment, I was grateful for the freedom of being alone.