The Story of Our Beginning

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The Torture


Pain, I feel now, is a word that is overused. There is not a word strong enough to explain what I am feeling. Every time she comes into the room, I’m healed of my scars. They don’t change my clothes. They don’t wash me. If I looked into the mirror, I wouldn’t know who is on the other side. They let me sit here in this cell, only with the thought of what just happened. The scars only covered my memory, not my body. The darkness is suffocating me, the stench of my own blood sickens me. I am covered in the sticky liquid that cakes my entire body. Blood. It’s everywhere. On the walls, on the floor, on the door that I so often try to run out of. But I can’t. My fate has been sealed. No one has come for me, and I don’t know how much more I can take. I will die here. I raised from the floor a little bit to tug on my chains. They still won’t budge. I will die here. The door creaked. The queen sauntered into the room. The wielder of my fate, the dictator of my life. She picked up a whip that she always starts with. It was already blood-soaked. She smiles at me, a cunning move. The calm before the storm. I close my eyes ready for the slash of the whip.

I will die here.

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