⛧°. ⋆༺♱༻⋆. °⛧
𓋹 Chapter 2 𓋹
I find myself sitting on the cold, hard floor, knees drawn to my chest, the darkness pressing in around me like a living thing.
I assume I was able to drift to sleep right after the tears had escaped my eyes, after so long, and honestly, I was glad to know I hadn't become a hollow shell.
I've learned that crying can make one very tired, and I say that from experience. The many times I had cried out my emotions and frustrations, I was able to sleep soundly after, and escape to the only place that provided me comfort within this cell—my dreamland, where time flees by so quickly. Sometimes, when I wake up, I even feel better than before. I guess sleep has also become my companion, along with the darkness.
Immediately, my sight is greeted by the darkness that surrounds me.
The air is thick with silence, the kind that makes my ears ring—a constant reminder of the isolation that wraps around me like a second skin.
The cell is as it always is—still, silent, and suffocating. It's a small space, just enough to remind me that freedom is a distant memory. The air is damp, heavy with the scent of mildew, and the walls are rough and unyielding, closing in on me like a vise. The only sound is the faint drip of water somewhere in the distance, a rhythmic reminder of time slipping away.
I don't know how long I've been in this cell. Days, weeks, months—it all blurs together in this endless night. The only break in the monotony comes when they drag me out for another round of pointless experiments. I've lost count of how many times it's happened. Each time, they find nothing—no sign of the power that simmers just beneath my skin, the sparks that dance at my fingertips when no one is watching. It's as if whatever is inside me knows to hide, to protect itself from their probing eyes.
So I play along, pretending to be as clueless as they think I am. I let them believe that I'm just a broken girl, that the power they're searching for is as elusive as they suspect. It's safer that way. Safer for me, safer for whatever is growing inside me, biding its time. But every time they strap me down, every time they shock me with electric currents, it gets harder to stay silent. The power wants to break free. It wants to burn this place to the ground, and I don't know how long I'll be able to keep it caged any longer.
I glance around the cell, my eyes well-adjusted to the darkness. The bed, if it can even be called that, is little more than a slab of metal bolted to the wall, the thin mattress frayed and stained. The sink is cracked, a spiderweb of fractures running across its surface, leaking a constant trickle of water that pools on the floor. There's nothing else. No window, no light, no escape. Just four walls and my own thoughts, which are more like a prison than this cell could ever be.
I hear them before I see them—the heavy footsteps echoing down the corridor, the sound of something metal scraping against the concrete.
My heart beats a little faster, though I try to calm it. They're coming for me again. I know the drill by now. They'll drag me out, strap me into that chair in the blindingly white room, and try again to coax something out of me that they don't understand.
The door to my cell creaks open, just enough to allow a sliver of light to slice through the darkness. I squint against the sudden brightness, my heart pounding in my chest. The dim light from the hallway spills into the cell, casting long shadows on the walls.
Three figures enter, their faces hidden behind apocalyptic masks that make them look more like ghosts than men. It's as if I am the disease they don't want to be in contact with. Their robes are dark and heavy, and they move with the precision of soldiers. I can't see their eyes through the masks, but I feel their gaze on me, assessing, cold.
Without a word, they grab me, pulling me to my feet. I don't resist. There's no point. I've learned that much. They drag me down the corridor, the sound of our footsteps echoing off the walls, and I force myself to stay calm. The power is stirring again, a familiar tingling in my fingertips, but I push it down, forcing it to stay hidden.
We reach the white room—the one that haunts my nightmares. It's stark, clinical, the kind of place where emotions don't belong. There's a large mirror on one wall, and I know there are people on the other side, watching, waiting for me to break. They strap me into the chair, the cold metal biting into my skin, and I keep my face blank, my eyes unfocused.
I try to steady myself. This has happened so many times; I don't know why I'm feeling a pang in my chest. Fear and anxiety creep from my chest to my throat, wrapping themselves around my throat, and slowly start to choke me.
The man in the scientist's robe steps into view, and my heart lurches in recognition. It's him. The one who was there that day—the day when my parents betrayed me, lured me out with false promises of love and care, only to hand me over to him like I was nothing more than a piece of trash to be discarded. James Walter. His hair is still neatly combed back, the same shade of blonde, though now streaked with gray. His eyes are cold, calculating, and he doesn't see me—a girl who has lost everything. No sympathy flickers through his eyes. His blue eyes stay dull and icy, as if he has become tired with the same routine of executing tortures on me. On the lab rat who he knows will lose its worth soon—he sees only his experiment.
The first jolt of electricity rips through me, and I bite down on my lip to keep from screaming. My eyes flicker to the nameplate on his chest, and I burn the name into my mind. James Walter. I let it roll over my mind again and again, memorizing it, adding it to the list of people I'll kill when I get out of here.
Because I will get out of here. No matter how long it takes, no matter what I have to do. I'll escape this hell, and when I do, I'll make sure every single one of them pays. Starting with him.