Shattered Innocence

An End to the Darkness

I hold Zack's hand tightly as he leads me downstairs, his support giving me strength. The rest of the group waits at the bottom, watching me closely, but I refuse to show any weakness. It's just a place, just a damned place, and my father's power over me has ended. I repeat this silently to myself as Zack guides us towards the open door that leads to the one location in the world I never wanted to revisit. Darkness creeps out from it, taunting me, its tendrils reaching out. Releasing Zack's hand, I take a step forward, my chin held high. With slow, deliberate breaths, I force myself to move forward, clutching the lingering warmth of Zack's palm, a reminder that I am not alone.

It's easier this time, and once I stand in the doorway, between two worlds, I close my eyes, shutting out the darkness in front of me. The memories of my father's commands flood back, along with the fear that used to paralyze me whenever I crossed this threshold, anticipating the pain that awaited. Lifting my foot, I willingly step inside for the first time ever. I stand still, my nostrils catching a slightly stale scent that hints at neglect, but beneath it lingers the antiseptic cleaner my father meticulously used, the one that always followed our sessions.

Swallowing the ghosts that threaten to possess me, I continue further inside, navigating the space almost instinctively in the darkness. It feels as though my father is right beside me, his imposing presence filling me with fear rather than safety. I can almost glimpse him from the corner of my eye, but I shake my head and come to a halt, knowing he's just inches away. Raising my hand, I touch the glass that separates me from the room where I endured some of the most horrifying days and nights of my life.

"Does anyone have a light?" someone mutters. "To your left, there's a bank of switches, two steps," I murmur, recalling every detail of the layout. After all, I used to count the bricks and study the tiles, anything to distract myself from the pain coursing through my body in this place. There's a moment of searching, and then I hear a click.

The lights flicker to life with a buzzing sound, illuminating the area in a harsh, bright white glow that is almost painful to behold. Blinking past the stinging sensation, I gaze at the room beyond, a room that remains unchanged. The metal chair is neatly tucked under the table, as if it's been waiting for me. Undoubtedly, the leather handles still bear the marks from my nails. The table is pristine and the chains neatly coiled at its center. The floor and ceiling are impeccably tiled—one hundred tiles each. In the corner, the cot is made and ready for other kinds of experiments, and the cameras in each corner are probably activated along with the lights.

I don't need to turn around to sense their shock and horror, nor do I want to.

"Holy fuck," someone whispers. I couldn't agree more. Everything appears so clean and perfect, yet I remember the walls stained with my blood, the echoes of my screams haunting the space, the smell of burnt skin and melted plastic. I recall the sight of burns on the table and floor, the shattered glass on my father's worktables as a result of his rage.

I remember it all. Thousands of memories converge on me as I close my eyes and press my hand against the glass. I can see her, the younger version of myself, doing the same, her eyes filled with tears and exhaustion, her forehead pressed against the glass as I do now. "Please, help me," I used to beg. It's as if I can touch her, can reassure her that we will get out, but I can't. She turns away, dropping her hand, leaving a slight smear in her hopelessness. With her back to me, her head drops back as she screams and screams, letting out every inch of her pain and agony. It will never echo around the house, though, only down here, haunting me even now.

"I'm sorry," I whisper. "I'm so sorry it took me so long to get us out," I murmur, needing to get it out. "I'm sorry it still hurts, and sorry we are still just as angry and lost."