The Dark Lord's Seer

Under His Skin

** TW: The following chapter contains graphic descriptions of: suicidality; suicidal ideation; self harm; sexual coercion; threats of abuse. DO NOT READ if you are not prepared to encounter such content. **

I slept, and I slept, and I slept. The price of my visions was exhaustion, a fact I'd long ago come to terms with. But having to constantly fight off and fend back Tom made the fatigue so much worse.

As I lay there in bed, I frowned to myself as I realised just how taxed I felt, both physically and mentally. It didn't take a genius to realise I was losing my battle against him handily. His mind games were unrelenting and sophisticated. Just when I thought there was hope for me to outthink him, he'd proven himself to be several steps ahead of me.

Perhaps if I was smarter and less stubborn, I'd conserve my energy and just accept my fate as his prisoner. But it was an ugly truth, and one I wasn't willing to accept yet. His execution of my brother - that's how I was going to refer to it going forward - only offered further proof of exactly how monstrous I knew he could be. The man was capable of anything.

Feeling overwhelmed and sorry for myself, I dipped back beneath the blanket and tucked my knees upwards against my chest: the small comfort of the huddled foetal position offered me a limited sense of relief.

How did he do it? How did he kill my brother? And who did he order to do it? Was it quick? Did he suffer?

It was at this moment that I reached my darkest point yet. Yes, I truly wanted to die. To cease to be. I would have given anything to stop living, to stop feeling pain.

An idea suddenly seized me, and I crawled out of the bed, ambling weakly over to the window. Pulling back the black velvet curtains, I stared out at the view my window afforded me. I was on the fourth floor, and as I gazed downwards, a sense of hope filled me.

It was high enough. Surely it was high enough that the fall would kill me. Guaranteed. Right?

I winced. Not at the idea of dying from the fall; no, that was my sole comfort, my escape hatch. I winced when I considered that it might not be high enough. That there was a decent chance I'd just break my back, or somehow survive. And then ... well, I didn't fear death, but I did fear being left in agonising pain, of continued subjection to Tom and his torment.

I stood silently contemplating my options. Nodding to myself, a rush of relief washed over me. Worth it to try. I had to try. Go headfirst. Dive. Surely that would be enough to ensure my neck broke instantly -

I was ready.

I reached with a steady hand for the latch - and gasped. Locked. Secured shut, a magic ward beyond my ability to open. Not without my wand. I fought back a wave of nausea: he'd anticipated this, there was no other explanation. The bastard knew I'd try sooner or later and preemptively sealed me in.

I stared at the window hatefully. There was no way I could break the glass and brute force my way out. This was old glass, composed of many small panes and iron wrought grills securing them in place.

I began to panic. No. No, no, no. I had to do this. I had to get out of here. End this now. If I stayed here any longer, I'd lose my mind. Anxiety seized me and my field of vision began to shrink. I sank down to the floor in a crumpled heap, my breathing quick and uneven. I was losing it now. In a frantic attempt to quell the sensory overload I was experiencing, I sank my fingernails deep into my wrists. The pain was my attempt to ground myself, to distract. I lost myself like this, my fingernails digging their way deeper and deeper. And when I finally looked down, I saw I'd tore viciously into my skin, lazy trails of red streaming down my wrists.