𝐔𝐋𝐓𝐄𝐑𝐈𝐎𝐑¹⁸⁺ | 𝐝𝐫𝐚𝐜𝐨 𝐱 𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐫

1

𝐓𝐖 - 𝐕𝐢𝐨𝐥𝐞𝐧𝐭 𝐜𝐫𝐢𝐦𝐞 & 𝐛𝐥𝐨𝐨𝐝

𝐂𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝐎𝐧𝐞 | "𝐒𝐡𝐚𝐥𝐥 𝐈 𝐩𝐫𝐨𝐯𝐞 𝐦𝐲 𝐝𝐞𝐯𝐨𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧?"

ϟ

I detect my frail magic oozing timely from my presence.

The crisp air prickled against my thorned skin. Nipping at the blood pulsating meekly through my veins. A wintry wind swept across the land with a bold honesty, a rawness that brought one's soul into the gentle cloud-filtered rays.

The waft smells of musky burnt gasoline, it streams up my nose. I register that scent as burnt flesh just like I had done for the past timing of eighteen thousand, seven hundred, and twenty minutes. I am unsure if the lingering smells were from my skin or someone else's, most likely a mix.

From the highest of mountains, the wind standardizes her needles of coddle towards me. However, I am not situated outside, no— not under any condition.

Surrounded by three slab bricked walls and a blockade with exactly fourteen augmented bars. It is perceived to the outdoors, that is how the sharp breeze arrives— though the unyielding iron bars. A gunmetal toilet placed on the rear right of my cell, nothing else. No blankets, no book, not so much as a chair, simply just me. I'm perceived as an exhibit, Death Eaters trail past with their nose pushed into the high air, they point, they watch- mocking me internally.

They are free and I am imprisoned.

I lay to with my side pressed on the inhospitable cell flooring, the only comfort being the flickering shimmer of light above me. My hands pressed together under my ear, mimicking the effects of a pillow.

The freedom I wish for so dearly is within my grasp, it teases me. Glaring at the field where the grass is waving to me with the draft like a quilt rippling over the timid horizon.

It's cold. Gosh— it's so fucking cold. It is the type of bitter frost that dips into my bones, as though heart were a door left wide open to the icy wind, slamming just to open once more.

Yet, I am wrong to complain. The duration of my time here has been only thirteen days. Which- when contrasted to the remainder of the prisoner population, it is quiet meek. In the three hundred and twelve hours I have spent here, isolated, I have endured more pain than I have in combined lifetimes.

For what reason must they be so remorseless to me?

The torture curse, it doesn't leave a fiber in my body untouched. It consumes me, flips my skin inside out- jabbing a trillion daggers into my nerves then twisting the handles. No, it's much more awful than I am ready to depict—