ARWAN
The steam from the shower surrounds me, a cocoon of warmth that contrasts sharply with the coldness that's settled deep within me. I stand before the mirror, my chest bare, my body a canvas of scars that tell a story I'd rather forget. Each mark and line carries with it a memory, a painful reminder of what I endured.
I reach out hesitantly, my fingers tracing the jagged lines that mar my skin. The touch is gentle and cautious, as if my body still bears the physical pain of the suffering I experienced. But the contact sends a shock of discomfort through me, the sensation a cruel reminder of the reality I've been trying to escape.
A shudder courses through my frame, the image of those days of torture flashing before my eyes. The cold room, the unyielding restraints, the relentless agony—it's all still etched into my mind, a haunting presence that refuses to fade.
