Page 37 of Operation: Defiance

A rough hand wrenches my arm out, twists, and slams the shoulder back into place with such force, tears stream down my cheeks. I barely manage to stifle my scream.

Every change feels random now.

It isn’t.

They’re being deliberately unpredictable.

Each time I’m moved, it’s something new. A different angle. A different strain.

But the floor is always cold. Cold is the baseline. Cold is the constant.

That and fabric stained with old sweat, dirt, and grime so even stillness burns.

Food comes less often. When it does, it’s quicker. Enough liquid to stop the shaking. Not enough to feel human.

If I shift my weight, there’s pain. If I don’t, there’s pain.

“Careful,” someone says once, almost kindly, as my knees buckle.

Cause and effect begin to blur. I know there’s a system underneath it. I know there’s an order they’re following. But the steps between thought and outcome feel longer now—like my mind is wading through deep water to reach a conclusion that used to be instant.

I have a thought and lose it.

I reach for a word and it slips away.

The absence hurts.

Each time they come, the movements are rougher. No pauses. No time to orient.

Pain arrives no matter what choice I make.

They want me to ask them to stop.

I know that.

They want me to say it out loud.

Bone-deep exhaustion settles in. The kind rest won’t fix even if I got it. My thoughts grow heavier. Slower.

I try to plan anyway.

Compliance.

Language…language…what?

The idea collapses halfway through. I can’t hold all the pieces at once anymore. Every path I map ends in the same blank space.

There is no way out of this.

They move me without warning.

Hands at my shoulders. A grip at my elbow. Pressure guiding my body downward until my thighs hit the chair, and I’m folded into it whether I’m ready or not.

This one is lower. Almost merciful.

That terrifies me.

My knees bend too sharply. My hips tilt back. The position locks my spine into a shallow curve that makes breathing harder than it needs to be.