“In time. But it will not affect your part,” I assure him. Without so much as an acknowledgment, he stands and walks out the door.
Finally, everything is falling into place, each piece moving as it should, and soon, it will be too late to stop.
TWO
Kallie
Present
I once tried to burn the bars that keep me caged. But the well of power that’s normally filled to the brim has gone dry. I begged for it to come, pleaded like you would for rain in a drought. Since then, they have injected me with something, keeping my powers dormant. I’m just praying to whatever gods or goddesses that are listening that my untimely end will come soon.
I pray that it’s near, just so I don’t have to bear this dull ache that’s inside me, throbbing as I try to suppress the memories of Callum and how he looked when he left me here to be held captive.
Their end game is unclear, hazy and blotchy like your vision when you stare too hard into the burning rays of the sun on a midsummer afternoon. No idea where you’re going but still making the turns to get to the desired destination. Nobody speaks to me, my food is scarce, and my throat is so dry I’mafraid if I speak, my vocal cords would tear to shreds.
My concept of time went right out the window—along with the hope I had—days, maybe weeks, ago. Who the hell knows anymore?
They brought another girl in some time after me. She doesn’t say anything, but neither do I. To my dismay, I made the mistake of looking at her when they brought her in. Her face was so bloody there wasn’t any semblance of skin underneath.
Her back is always to me, and I don’t mind, thankful the evidence of what they’re doing to her doesn’t stare me in the face on the few occasions my eyes are open. Respectfully, if I had to look at her every day, there’s no doubt in my mind I’d puke up whatever little was left in my stomach—and I need to save every calorie I can in here.
People in masks come and go. They wear black cloaks that are unrecognizable, no sigil or emblem, nothing. I’m assuming it’s so we can’t figure out where we’re being held. But does it matter? It’s not like we could get out if we tried. Oh boy, did I try. Rationality hit me like a ton of bricks, and the light I once held inside died right along with my sanity.
Acceptance is the final step in the grieving process. I’ve accepted the life I had before is gone. The person I worked so hard to be has perished and is nothing but a pile of ash somewhere deep inside me. Since then, I’ve been withering away, rotting on the floor of this cage, waiting for them to finally come and reunite me with the mother I never knew. What’s the point in dragging it out? It’s inevitable.
My mantra has done little to bring me peace during my time here. It seems, at some point, I’ve given up.
But I don’t allow myself that sense of solace. Hope is just a way for people to think the grass is greener on the other side or whatever. Nothing is green. Nothing is color. It’s all just a sea of unrecognizable blobs of destruction, designed to give theillusion of hope—it’s all a hoax.
Voraxis has been on my mind lately, but I keep those thoughts and memories at arms’ length. The bonds I once held onto like a lifeline have been snuffed out along with my power. It’s just an empty hole where my thoughts tend to wander aimlessly until they settle on nothingness.
They removed the chain at the same time my powers became a fleeting memory, allowing me full range of the little space I get to call home. There’s no bed to take up any of the three-by-five feet of space. The only thing I have access to is a bucket that’s now newly bolted to the floor.
They made that upgrade due to an instance that involved me throwing the bucket full of my piss and shit at a guard that was bringing me my first meal in I don’t know how long.Mealis a stretch—moldy bread and three stale crackers are normally the chef’s choice.
I didn’t eat for a while after that. It felt like my insides were eating themselves by the time I saw another tray.
However, when I see them bring in the single cup of water I’m allowed—one per day I’m assuming—I shamelessly beg them for it, inhaling it in one gulp, pleading for just one more drop.
In the first few days, I expected to see Callum—even if he was coming to torture or torment me—but he hasn’t showed. That might be the most painful part.
Light years pass before I hear the unmistakable sound of the door opening. Feet shuffle in, but they don’t make it to me, instead stopping at my neighbor’s cell. She doesn’t resist, doesn’t make a peep as they drag her out.
Against my better judgment, I look up and instantly wish I hadn’t. Her face is beaten and bruised, coated with so much dry, crusty blood it mimics the color of oil, but I know better.
There isn’t anything I wouldn’t do for a hot shower right now. Even a cold shower would be amazing. But those dreamswent right down the drain the same time I lost all hope to the scattering wind.
At first, the silence ate away at me, gnawing at my composure slowly, but now, I welcome it. Lying on my side, I pick at the cracks in the ground until my fingernails bleed. This is something I do to pass the time. I pick and pick, then take the blood that beads on my fingertips and paint along the walls. Symbols and pictures that mean nothing but make the place look livelier in my opinion.
The door opens again as I’m in the middle of creating the best picture yet. I call itVengeful Backstabber.On the wall is a perfect portrait of me, gripping the hilt of a sword, and the blade protruding out the other end of a man that looks coincidentally like Callum.
“Interesting form of expression.”
My movements freeze. The deep voice sends chills racing down my spine, and I fight against my instinct to react.
“Although, I think you go\t my nose wrong.”
I want to fucking kill him. I’mgoingto kill him. It might not be today, but I’ll make sure he goes before I do.
