It hurts.
It hurts a lot.
Should I tell them?
No. They won't listen. They never do.
The words stay locked in my throat, trapped behind the silence I've worn like skin. My body trembles, though the air is still. The walls breathe with me — slow, heavy, suffocating. I can taste the dust in the air. It's the only thing that reminds me I'm still here. That I'm still… something.
Each moment blurs into the next. There's no sun, no moon, just shadows changing shapes. Maybe five days have passed. Maybe five years. The pain doesn't keep time.
I stare at the ceiling again. The same cracks. The same dull color that pretends to be white but isn't. When I blink, the lines shift, and I imagine they're roads on a map — roads that lead away from here.
But they never do.
The sound of footsteps approaches — heavy, careless, too familiar. My hands curl into fists, nails digging into my palms until I almost bleed. The sting helps. It means I can still feel something that belongs to me.
He says my name — not my real one, the one they gave me. The one that sounds wrong in his mouth. I turn my head slightly, enough to see the boots I hate, the floor I know too well. He's talking again, the same cruel jokes, the same filth that clings to the air like smoke. I stop listening. I count the cracks instead. One, two, three—
The sound grows harsher. The weight above me moves with rhythm — a rhythm I've learned to hate, a rhythm I wish I could forget. Each thrust steals a piece of me, one I might never get back. His breath is hot against my skin, and I imagine I'm somewhere else. Anywhere else.
A field, maybe. A river. The sound of laughter that isn't sharp like broken glass.
He picks up his pace. He's almost done. I can tell by the way he grunts, by the way the air feels heavier. Should I be happy? No. I shouldn't. I can never be. Happiness is a language I forgot before I ever learned to speak it.
When it's over, I don't move. I don't cry. I don't even blink. The door shuts, and the silence returns — thick, suffocating, familiar. I stare at the ceiling again. It looks different today. Maybe it's the light. Maybe it's me.
For a while, I just breathe. In. Out. The air tastes like rust and fear. My body feels empty, like I'm borrowing it from someone else. Maybe I am. Maybe the real me is hiding somewhere deep, too far for them to reach.
Time passes, or maybe it doesn't. I hear a drip somewhere — a pipe, a leak, something small. It's the only sound that doesn't hurt.
Then — shouting.
At first faint, like a dream.
Then louder. Closer.
Men's voices, sharp and panicked. A crash. The slam of a door.
I freeze. My heart stumbles in my chest. Is it them again? Or… is it something else?
My eyes dart toward the light seeping under the door. It flickers once. Twice. My throat tightens, words clawing their way up, desperate to be said but too afraid to live.
Have people finally come to save me?
Can I finally go home?
I don't know what home even means anymore.
I pull the torn blanket closer, though it doesn't make me warm. My breath shakes. The shouting grows louder — boots, commands, the sound of chaos tearing through the silence.
My body wants to move, but my mind doesn't trust it. What if it's another trick? Another round?
I close my eyes and listen. There's another sound now — a bang, like metal meeting stone. Then a voice, softer than the rest. It sounds almost kind. Almost human.
For the first time in two weeks, I let myself hope. Just a little.
The air shifts. The door handle turns.
Light floods the room.
And then—