Chapter 82 Grace
The world is a symphony of pain. It’s the only music I know now.
A low, constant thrumming from the raw, bloody ruins where my ears used to be, a percussive ache in every bone from the cold stone floor, a sharp, string-pluck of agony deep inside me every time I shift.
The iron cuffs around my wrists and ankles are ice and fire, chafing skin that is more bruise and cut than flesh now.
The chains are short, cruel things with just enough length to allow me to curl into a ball, to bring my hands to my face. But not enough to stand, to stretch, to ever forget I am an animal in a cage.
The air is thick with the smell of me. Of blood, both old and new, a coppery tang that has seeped into the stone. Of sweat, fear and the lingering, sour stench of the men who raped me.
I am a thing of filth.
I try to disappear inside myself, to retreat to a corner of my mind they haven’t found yet but the pain is a relentless warden, dragging me back to this hell.
My hands are pressed against my belly. It’s an instinct I can’t control, a protective gesture that feels both futile and essential.
For days, maybe weeks-- time is a fluid, meaningless concept here-- I’ve tried to deny it.
The slight, firm growing curve beneath my skin.
The fluttering, like a trapped moth beating its wings against the inside of a jar.
It’s impossible. A phantom sensation born of starvation and madness.
A desperate, cruel trick my broken mind is playing to give me something to hold onto.
But I can’t deny it anymore. Not now. As I lie here, cradling the only part of me that might still be pure, I feel it. A distinct, undeniable roll. A life, stubbornly asserting its presence in this temple of death.
A sob catches in my throat.
I don’t know whose it is. The timeline is a blurred nightmare of forced entries and violated flesh. They say it’s his, but I don’t believe them, I don’t believe a word of it.
This child, my child, is a product of hatred. A seed planted in violence.
The thought makes me want to vomit, but there’s nothing in my stomach to bring up. My last meal was a piece of bread so stale it cut my gums, and water that tasted of the tin cup and the guard’s contempt.
I drank it. I licked the dampness from the floor afterwards, because dignity is a thing I ran out of a long time ago.
The sound comes to me not through the bloody, bandaged holes on the side of my head, but through the vibrations in the floor.
Footsteps.
My body reacts before my mind can, curling tighter, making myself small. The chains clink like a soft, pathetic accompaniment to my terror. Please, not again. Not now. I press my forehead against my knees, trying to become part of the stone, trying to vanish.
The heavy bolt on the door screeches, a sound that grates directly on my soul. The door swings inward, and a sliver of torchlight from the corridor beyond cuts through the oppressive dark of my cell, illuminating swirling motes of dust and despair.
He stands there, silhouetted in the entrance. I know his shape, his smell. One of them. The one with the cold hands and the habit of humming while he… while he… My breath hitches, coming in short, panicked gasps. I can’t look at his face.
“Good news,” his voice is a mockery of cheer, slithering into the room.
It sounds muffled, distant, as if I’m hearing him from the bottom of a well. My hearing is mostly gone but some frequencies, some tones of cruelty seem to penetrate the damage.
I don’t move. Good news doesn’t exist here. It’s just another form of torture for me.
“Your piece of shit of a husband actually did it,” he continues, and I freeze. Every muscle locks. “He killed the Grand Master.”
The words don’t make sense. They are nonsense syllables. Antonio? Antonio did that? A hysterical laugh bubbles in my chest, but dies as a whimper. I must be hallucinating. The hunger, the thirst, the pain, it’s finally fractured my mind completely. I am mad, finally fucking mad.
I blink, trying to clear the vision, but he’s still there.
He takes a step into the cell and squats down, his knees cracking. His eyes, accustomed to the dark, roam over my shivering form with detached interest.
Just then, a new sound vibrates through the floor. A distant, popping rhythm. Gunfire. It’s getting closer.
He tilts his head, a grotesque parody of curiosity. “Do you think he’ll be happy to see you?” he asks, his voice a low purr. “After everything? He liked sharing you out, wonder how he’ll feel knowing your cunt has been this well used?”
The question is a knife twisting in my gut. I see myself reflected in his eyes: a mutilated, blood-caked creature, huddled in its own waste.
“Maybe he’ll be so grateful to get you back, he’ll fuck you right here on this filthy fucking floor.”
A gulp works its way down my parched throat. I try to form a word, any word but my tongue is a swollen, useless piece of flesh stuck to the roof of my mouth.
He watches my struggle for a moment then gives a slight, almost imperceptible shrug. He reaches into his jacket and pulls out a heavy, dark pistol. The metal gleams dully in the faint light.
My heart stutters as I see it.
This is it. This is the end.
Instead of fear a strange, welcome peace washes over me. Finally. Finally I am going to die, and this will be the end of it.
But he doesn’t point it at me. Instead, he places it carefully on the stone floor between us, just out of my reach.
Then, from his pocket, he produces a single bullet.
He holds it up between his thumb and forefinger.
It’s brass, golden, and in this darkness, it seems to glow with its own infernal light.
“Here,” he says, his voice losing all pretence, becoming flat and cold. “You have a choice. Wait here for your dear husband to come for you… or be brave enough to end it.”
He places the bullet on the floor, next to the pistol. He rises to his feet, looks down at me one last time with that empty gaze, and turns. The door slams shut, the bolt screeches home. The light vanishes, and the darkness rushes back in, thicker and heavier than before.
Silence.
Then, the gunfire again, and it’s closer. Much closer.
My body moves before my mind can process the enormity of it.
I uncurl myself, and the chains scrape against the floor.
I scramble forward, while my body screams in protest at the sudden movement.
The length of the chain on my wrist cuff pulls taut.
My fingertips brush cold, grooved metal.
I stretch, and my shoulder joint burns like it’s been set on fire, but my fingers close around the rough checkering of the pistol’s grip.
I drag it back toward me, and the sound is so loud I fear it will give me away.
I collapse onto my side; the gun clutched to my chest like a prayer book I’m cradling. It feels impossibly heavy.
But I have a choice.
I can wait, I can let Antonio find me; let that man turn me back into his pet again. Can let him use me, whore me out, do whatever he wants again while pretending he loves me. I can bear this child of violence, Antonio’s supposed child.
Or…I can end it.
It would be so easy. A fraction of an inch of pressure. An end to the pain, an end to the fear. I would never have to do any of those disgusting things again. This child inside me, my child, would never have to know a world that could create a place like this.
My tears stream down my face, and I can’t tell if I’m crying tears of joy or regret. Has God given me this moment, this chance? Is this his divine mercy being offered right now?
I gulp, adjusting my grip on the pistol, making it more secure.
I know what I am, what Antonio made me and what these men also made me. I’m a whore. A sinner. I’m condemned to hell already, but it can’t be worse than the reality of what my life is.
My other hand curls around my belly, holding my baby the only way I will ever be able to, and I whisper the words “I’m sorry.”
And I am sorry. I’m so fucking sorry. This poor child, this poor little thing deserved better parents, better options. A better mother than the piss poor human it got.
If I had the strength, if I had the courage I would fight for it. I would fight for my child but I’m too broken, too weak, too pathetic to do that now.
I am a coward.
I want the easy way out.
I want the silence.