Chapter 27
My bones are treacherous things right now.
Every single one of them feels like it’s been turned to sand and packed back together with a faulty glue that just won’t stick.
They ache with a low, grinding vibration that starts deep in my pelvis and seems to radiate outwards, settling in my shoulders, my jaw, the very marrow of my being.
It’s a constant, companionable ache, and the unwelcome soundtrack to my existence.
Another day has stretched endlessly, another torture session disguised as work.
Forcing me to stand, to fold, to be still in ways my body wasn’t built for, let alone wanted to be.
Spending hours upon hours maintaining the same posture until my muscles weren’t just tired, they were rebelling in a silent, furious protest that echoes the fear clawing at my insides.
And now it’s done, now it is night and I can move, can walk, can do anything but the one thing I so desperately need to.
Exhaustion is usually a heavy blanket, thick and comforting, at least it was when my old cage was one of white walls and a constant camera. But this isn’t that kind of exhaustion. This is a buzz-saw of fatigue, a relentless demand that my body just… give up.
My eyelids feel like lead weights, glued shut by sheer depletion but sleep is the enemy; a forbidden luxury to me.
The rules are clear, etched into the fabric of this nightmare; Stay awake. You are not permitted sleep.
It’s been days. Days of twisted torture when the sun is up and then something else, something far more insidious when it goes down.
My eyes feel like sandpaper, gritty and unwilling to obey. I try to force them open, to assess the room, to confirm I’m alone, but the effort is monumental. The air smells stale, thick with the scent of damp perspiration and old, dried-up piss.
I need sleep.
The word echoes in my head, a siren song I cannot indulge.
My body is screaming for it, collapsing under the weight of its own demands.
But my mind is a fortress, built on fear and reinforced by the sheer terror of the last time I closed my eyes. The memory isn’t a single image; it’s a kaleidoscope of sounds and sensations I actively suppress.
A shudder runs through me. I can see it. I can see him, standing over me, with that thing in his hand and I can’t get away, I can’t…
A sound tears through everything; it rips me from the briefest moment of terror filled sleep.
A high-pitched, ragged scream echoes off the bare walls.
My eyes fly open, not by choice, but by a force more primal than exhaustion.
And then the collar, the metal he locked around my neck goes off. That same awful electricity shoots through my body, punishing me for my disobedience.
Adrenaline floods my system. My heart pounds against my ribs like a trapped bird, a frantic rhythm that vibrates up my throat and down my arms. My body tenses, coiling into a defensive stance even though there’s nowhere to run, nothing to fight.
My muscles scream in protest at the sudden movement, but fear overrides pain.
He’s back. The thought is instantaneous, a blinding certainty that steals the air from my lungs. He’s here.
I scramble backwards, limbs clumsy with panic and fatigue until my back hits the cold plaster wall.
My breath comes in short, sharp gasps. I press my trembling hands against my ears, trying to block out the phantom sound, but it’s already receding, leaving only the frantic thumping of my own heart and the raggedness of my breathing.
The room sways slightly, a dizzying aftermath of the terror spike.
I stay frozen against the wall, my eyes fixed on the door, waiting, convinced that he’s going to burst through and start shocking me again. Shocking me more.
My skin still crawls. My body trembles uncontrollably, a shuddering release of the tension I didn’t know I was holding.
I’m safe. The words echo, hollow and distant.
The man is not here, he didn’t come back through the door.
He didn’t materialize from the walls, but safety is not a comfort when all I need, all I desperately fucking need right now is sleep.
My exhaustion is a vast, yawning chasm.
It pulls at me like a gravitational force I cannot resist. My eyelids feel heavier now, not with lead but with the weight of utter, bone-deep fatigue. The fear, the adrenaline, the sheer effort of staying awake is wearing me down.
Sleep is calling, a siren song laced with danger.
I should stay awake.
I have to stay awake.
But my body is a traitor.
The muscles in my eyes, already strained, are begging for release. The dull ache in my bones is aching for the sweet oblivion of unconsciousness. The scream, that awful, sharp intrusion seems so far away now, a bad dream I’ve willed myself out of.
My eyelids flutter. One drops, then the other. Just for a second. A tiny, involuntary surrender. And then, as my eyes shut completely, the scream hits me again.
It scrapes against my eardrums, a banshee wail that pierces through the fragile veil between wakefulness and sleep. It mirrors the sound of my own terror, echoing back from the depths of my own psyche.
My eyes fly open again, gasping, tears welling instantly. And then that awful pain forces me to my knees, leaves me doubled over, panting, crying, begging for mercy.
Adrenaline surges through me once more, a violent spike that makes my heart hammer against my ribs as panic grips me, cold and sharp.
I clutch my head, trying to block out the sound, but it’s impossible. This noise is designed to wake me, to torture me, to ensure that I cannot sleep. That I cannot get a moment of rest.
The scream fades, receding back into the static of my fear.
The room is silent once more.
I’m so desperately exhausted I could cry. I just want to sleep. I need to sleep, but he won’t let me.
My body screams at me to run, fight, get away, but his hand is already there, clamping over my forehead, slamming me back.
“None of that,” the man murmurs, not needing the prod in his hand now for me to feel the threat. He grabs my jaw, forcing it open. His fingers dig into the hinges of my mouth, relentless, and I gag immediately, my throat convulsing as the tube presses against my tongue.
No, no, no.
I try to bite down but fingers pinch my nose shut, cutting off my air. My lungs burn. My vision blurs at the edges, darkening like ink spreading through water. And then the tube is forced in.
It snakes its way down my throat like some invasive parasite, forcing me to accept what I don’t want.
It isn’t just the violation of it, the way it slithers past my gag reflex like a living thing, it’s the helplessness.
The way my body betrays me, swallowing reflexively even as my mind screams no, no, no…
I choke, my body convulsing but he holds me down, his grips unrelenting. Tears spill hot down my temples, soaking into my hair. The first rush of liquid food pours into me, thick and lukewarm, flooding my stomach like sludge.
I don’t know what it is they’re feeding me, what this liquid contains but in my mind I picture it like liquid cement, grey and bland.
“You haven’t earned a proper meal yet,” the man says, his breath warm against my ear.
I squeeze my eyes shut, my throat working against the unnatural invasion. The liquid keeps coming, too fast, too much. My stomach cramps, swelling under the pressure, and for a wild, dizzying second, I think it might split open.
I whimper, my fingers clawing at what feels like nothing but the air around me.
Memories flicker, useless, taunting. My mother’s cooking, the smell of garlic and herbs, the warmth of a real meal. The way my stomach used to growl in anticipation, and not in dread.
A sob catches in my chest, but I swallow it down.
I won’t give him that.
I won’t.
The man tosses the bottle, and that’s the only warning I get before he yanks the tube back out. It rips free, leaving my throat raw and burning. I lurch forward, landing on all fours with my stomach heaving, bile rising in a hot rush.
Then the prod hovers inches from my face, its tip glowing faintly blue. The smell of ozone fills the air, sharp and electric.
“You vomit, you get punished,” he says, his voice flat. “Choose.”
My body shakes. My mouth floods with acid, the taste rancid. I swallow hard, forcing it back down while my throat convulses and protests. I gag again, but clench my teeth while my eyes water with the effort.
Don’t. Don’t. Don’t.
The man watches me, his head tilted like he’s studying some fascinating specimen. Then, slowly, his lips curl.
The lights above buzz, relentless. My stomach churns, the artificial fullness making me nauseous, but I don’t move. Don’t speak.
He leaves without another word.
The door clicks shut, and I’m alone again.
Alone with the taste of bile, the ache in my throat, the knowledge that tomorrow? Tomorrow, they’ll do all of this all over again.