Hope Ur Ok

Bleed

The sound of the cell door slamming shut echoed through the dimly lit room, and Mayia Keller, battered and bruised, was left to her own devices once more. Her body ached with every movement, the pain a constant reminder of the merciless beating she had endured. But the physical pain was nothing compared to the emotional torment that had been unleashed.

As she huddled in the corner of her cell, blood oozing from a split lip and a swollen eye, the memories came rushing back, unbidden and cruel. This time, they were different, sharper, more vivid.

She was a young child, no more than three, sitting at a kitchen table piled high with crayons and coloring books. Her mother, a warm and loving presence, knelt beside her, her gentle hands guiding Mayia's small fingers as she colored within the lines. Her twin sister, whose name she still didn't know, giggled beside her.

"Look, sweetie," her mother said, her voice a soothing melody. "You're doing so well."

Mayia could feel the warmth of her mother's approval, the sense of belonging and love that filled the room. It was a memory bathed in sunlight, a moment of pure happiness that had long been buried.

But the memory shifted, darkening like a storm on the horizon.

She was slightly older now, perhaps four, and she stood in the doorway of her parents' bedroom. Their voices were raised in anger, a bitter argument that shook the very foundation of their home. Her mother's tears glistened in the dim light, and her father's face was contorted with rage.

She watched, her heart heavy with fear and confusion, as her family unraveled before her eyes. It was a memory stained with pain, a reminder that even the happiest of families could be torn apart.

The memories continued to play out, each one a knife to the heart. Family picnics in sunlit parks, bedtime stories whispered by loving parents, hugs and laughter that had once filled her days—all of them were fragments of a life that had been stolen from her.

Overwhelmed by the weight of her grief and longing, Mayia began to sob, tears mingling with the blood on her face. She rocked back and forth in her corner, her body wracked with sobs, her voice a mournful wail.

"Mom... Dad... I want to go home," she choked out between sobs, her voice a fragile echo in the sterile cell. "I want my family."

But there was no comfort to be found, no solace in the darkness that enveloped her. She was alone, trapped in a world where the past and present collided in a cruel dance of despair.

As she rocked back and forth, Mayia Keller, B-437, the obedient killer, became a child once more—a child who longed for the warmth of a mother's embrace, the strength of a father's love, and the companionship of a twin sister lost to the cruelty of fate.

In the confines of her cell, her silent screams were drowned out by the anguish of her tears, a testament to the family she had lost and the pain that consumed her. And as she wept, she whispered a single word, a word that held the weight of a lifetime of longing.

"Please."

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In the stillness of the night, Mayia lay on her cold, hard cot, her battered body aching with every breath. The memories of her stolen past still haunted her, their cruel echoes reverberating through her mind. She had cried herself to exhaustion, the tears drying on her cheeks, leaving only the residue of pain.

As she lay in fitful slumber, a soft, measured voice crept into her consciousness. It was the voice of the man she knew only as Dr. Ivanov, the overseer of her existence in this hellish place. His words, spoken in hushed tones, sent a shiver down her spine.