Prologue-prison walls

Prologue-prison walls

Well, I really did it this time. A sigh escapes me—half anger, half defeat—as I bury my face in my hands. My skin is tight, my eyes raw and swollen from another pointless round of tears. The irony burns: somehow, this feels right. Like every step I’ve taken has led me here—alone, caged, stripped of everything except the echo of my own breath. After everything I’ve survived, how did I ever believe freedom was possible? Hope was a luxury, and I spent it carelessly. Now, it’s gone—just like everything else. The clang of steel jolts me. The guard slides the bars shut, the sound splitting the air like a verdict. His smile creeps slowly across his face—small at first, then spreading, curling up the side of his mouth in something almost gleeful. The dim light slices across his features, painting one half of his face in shadow and the other in a sickly glow. He looks like something out of a comic book, only there’s no hero coming to save me. Lately, my life feels like one of those tragic panels—ink smeared, pages torn, the villain always a step ahead. And I’m the fool who never learns the twist until it’s too late. My eyes drift to the shine of his uniform buttons, tiny glints catching the light like distant stars. Anything is better than meeting that stare. His gaze clings to me—slow, assessing, hungry. The hairs at the back of my neck stand on end. Don’t look afraid, I tell myself. Don’t give him that satisfaction.

I straighten, folding my trembling hands in my lap, pretending composure I don’t feel. The guard lingers another second, that wicked smile deepening, before turning and walking away. The echo of his boots fades down the corridor, leaving me in silence thick enough to choke on. My cell is a box—cold concrete walls, a narrow cot, a metal sink that drips just enough to mock me. The air smells faintly of bleach and something metallic. Every sound—the distant shouts, the clatter of keys, the occasional sob—feels too loud in the emptiness. I lean back against the wall, its chill seeping through my thin shirt. I close my eyes, just for a moment, and the memories crash in like a tide. You can’t run from this forever, Amara. His voice—Killain’s—slips through the cracks of my mind, low and possessive. It’s been weeks, maybe months, but he still haunts every quiet moment.

"I’ll always find you, little one." I swallow hard. Even here, locked away, I can feel his shadow stretching across my skin. He doesn’t need bars to trap me; he’s already built a prison inside my head. I run my fingers through my hair—tangled and wild now, a far cry from who I used to be. The woman in the mirror back then had hope in her eyes, fire in her chest. Now all that’s left is the flicker of survival. Don’t think about him. Don’t let him win again. But it’s impossible. His face surfaces anyway—his smile when he thought I was his, the anger when I defied him, the way his voice turned soft right before it broke me. My breath catches. I press my palms flat against the wall, grounding myself in the sting of cold concrete. I never wanted this life. I didn’t choose the bruises or the lies, the endless cycle of fear disguised as love.

But somewhere along the way, I stopped fighting. Maybe that’s the cruelest part—realizing I walked myself right into his cage, even before the bars closed around me. Footsteps echo down the hall again. Another guard—different face, same uniform—stops outside my cell. He doesn’t leer like the other one; his eyes are tired, distant, maybe even kind. “Dinner’s in ten,” he mutters. I nod but say nothing. He moves on. Ten minutes. Enough time to pull myself together, to remember who I am—or who I used to be. I splash water on my face, the shock stealing my breath. The reflection that stares back is a stranger: hollow eyes, lips pressed tight, a ghost wearing my skin. I grip the edge of the sink until my knuckles whiten. You’re still here, I remind myself. You’re still breathing. That means there’s still a chance.

The clang of the mess hall bell cuts through the air, sharp and final. I step back from the mirror, wiping my hands on my pants. One step at a time—that’s all I can manage now. When the cell door slides open, I follow the line of women down the corridor. Some glare, some whisper, others don’t bother to look at me at all. New blood doesn’t last long here; they can smell weakness before you even open your mouth. In the cafeteria, I keep my head down, tray clutched tight, eyes scanning for an empty table. The room hums with noise—metal trays clanging, guards barking orders, laughter sharp as glass. I find a corner seat and sink into it, trying to disappear.

The food is barely edible, but I force it down. I need strength, even if it tastes like dust. Across the room, two women watch me, heads bent together, smirking. I pretend not to notice. Let them stare. I focus on the rhythm of my fork scraping the plate, on breathing slow and steady. I can do this. I’ve survived worse. Still, a whisper curls in the back of my mind, dark and familiar. "You can’t hide from me forever, little one." I glance toward the barred windows, the last scraps of daylight fading beyond the walls. The world outside feels like another lifetime. Freedom isn’t just distance—it’s forgetting. And I’m not sure I’ll ever forget. When the guards call time, I rise with the others. My tray clatters against the bin, my hands trembling again despite my resolve. As I walk back to my cell, I tell myself a lie I almost believe: This is temporary. I’ll find a way out. I’ll never let him own me again. But as the bars slam shut behind me, the echo rings like a promise I’m not sure I can keep.