"Them?" I cut in. Is he not part of this group? "Why are you talking in third person? Are you not one of them… sir?" Then, it strikes me. He slipped. He let me in and couldn't control his words. Finally, he lost a battle of wills and his emotions got the best of him. His expression says it all.
How did I miss this?
I've known this man for a long time now; in fact, his face is the only one I saw here. His hands were the ones touching and torturing me, his eyes watching me squirm, his voice was the only one I heard, and yet I never saw that expression.
Ever.
"You'll understand soon enough, Cassandra," he whispers, jumping out of the chair and pushing it against the wall. He opens the door and in an instant he's gone, slamming the door shut. The metallic sound echoing in my small cell is the only thing left here with me; after a second, I hear the lock being engaged.
Yes, he's gone.
Cassandra, that's my name. I haven't forgotten it, I just stopped saying it in my head a long time ago. He never used it, until now.
Why?
I can't avoid having this feeling that something big is about to happen. I'm scared shitless, and my throat is swollen, blocked.
Are they going to kill me? If that's the case, then I'm relieved— I really need this to end. I only hope that they don't work on me until I am. I want it to be fast and snappy, like a well-earned gift. After years of pain and agony, this is all I can think of. I never thought I'd say it, but if my life goes on like this, I'd rather die.
I wouldn't wish the things I've felt and had to endure in here to my worst enemy. All of this and much more by his hand. At least, he never raped me. He threatened me with it, but never actually did it. His proficiency lies somewhere else— with the whip, the knives, and the chair… Oh, God. The chair is the worst because when I'm in the chair, I get to see him in the eye.
Chapter Two
Inner bitch.
I can't sleep. I'm jittery, fidgeting, incapable of staying in one position. I don't even have enough space to move this much; but somehow, I manage to do it.
In more recent news, I've been noticing my legs are getting numb lately, so I started to walk around my cell —my home, my tiny world. It's so small that once I tried to touch two walls at the same time by placing my feet on one and trying to reach the opposite with the tip of my fingers. I almost made it.
The walls are gray— no surprise there, right? With a scent of humid concrete, just like I imagined a real dungeon would smell like; the floor changes color —from regular dusty concrete to damp concrete with a layer of mud. How come I have mud in here, you say? Well, the random water splashes I receive make my already not friendly dusty cell a little more unpleasant.
My feet can't tell the difference anymore, I'm very used to walking in watery surfaces now.
If anybody asks me, how does it feel to be a prisoner? I'd say it feels as if God had stopped looking your way. At first, I had hope, I clung to it like a lifesaver. But eventually that faded and the only thing I'm left with is despair, which is the worst. I'd also say that living here made me realize that sometimes death can be felt and considered as a gift and not a punishment, as our society usually teaches us.
To 'feel'— that's a word I rarely hear in my head anymore. I think I've lost that faculty, or maybe by losing everything that was good in my life, my heart might not beat as it used to. Right now, if I feel anything at all, it would be that my body's inactive, as if it switched off because I can't feel anything. Some days I'm grateful for it, but others the need to feel burn so hot that I must scream from the top of my lungs.
And I do it…
For hours…
Every breakout attempt failed, again and again. I still can see the claw marks I made on the wall my first days here. Hopelessness had taken over and for the first time, I felt I'd lost my sanity, that I was crazy at last. I wasn't even thinking about my self-inflicted injuries and how serious they were until he came to heal my bloody fingers. I couldn't use my hands for a long time. Because of this, he had to feed me like a baby— you know, with a spoon to my mouth. I hate him for it, for being good to me. I didn't want his kind side to poison my mind. I wanted to hate him. That was the last time I lost control. I decided I didn't want to give him more power than he already had.
Losing track of days makes you dizzy in a sea of desperation. Time is essential to know yourself because life is made of infinitely chained moments leading to the future. The future feeds us, the past gives us knowledge; both body and soul need time to adjust and find harmony. When time's dizzy, it simply can't work.
Where's the day or the night?
Sometimes, I felt my body kept on living just because. When he began to see it wither away so fast, he started to feed me. For a second, I saw compassion within him. At first, I thought I saw guilt in his eye, so I tried to get close to him using mercy as a strategy. But he's a smart man, he saw right through that sliver of hope in me, and my punishments became heavier.
I made the mistake of thinking I could return to my former life and I've learned my lesson— you can't and shouldn't trust the creatures that feed on the darkness.
But at the same time, I couldn't trust God, either.
So, who do I trust?
Myself, only myself.
'Punishment'— it's odd to use that word now. In the world out there, the punishment was inflicted by your father whenever you came home late from a date or when you failed a test. Today, the word punishment has a whole new meaning. It's no longer tied to any logical explanation, as it used to. This punishment is inflicted without logic; it's inflicted only because he wants to.
