Wings

20: Broken On The Floor

NPOV

Track: Broken, Isak Danielson

TW: Extreme violence. (Emphasis on extreme.)

I don't have anything to use to scratch the hard stone making up the walls of my cell, so I count the days of imprisonment by plucking a feather each morning and lining them up along the wall. It's inconvenient, but it's the only way I can keep track of how many days have passed. I want to know exactly how long I have until my trial, and I want to be able to know if the king lies about how long I've been here. Besides, it gives me something to do: count the feathers along the wall, and take deep breaths as I remind myself that my time here will soon come to an end. If I can just survive two weeks, I will either be executed and reborn, or I will walk free under the night sky—that is, assuming that King Hermes's aggression doesn't worsen.

On the first morning after the night of my trial, there's another "interrogation." General Clarisse wakes me up by pulling me from the ground, and thanks to Bianca last night, I'm able to walk without limping for the first time since being shot out of the sky. Clarisse gives me a confused look, searching my body for the signs of injuries that should surely be there. She narrows her eyes but then seems to brush it off, and she gestures at the soldiers to keep my arms restrained as we walk to the torture chamber.

As we approach, I strain against their grip, trying to overpower them without hurting them, but they dig their nails into my skin, tearing deep gashes when I pull against them. I dig my feet into the ground, quickly twisting my body in an attempt to lose them—and their grip loosens and hope blossoms—

One soldier loses his grip, and I ignore the blood dripping down my arm as I twist, pushing myself away from the remaining guard and—

Clarisse is there in an instant, grabbing at my throat and tackling me to the ground—my head hits stone, and I groan as pain pounds across my skull. Clarisse tightens her grip on my throat—I can't breathe—

"Get his arms, and this time, don't fucking let go," she hisses at the soldiers, who hurry to follow the order.

When the soldiers have a firm grasp on me again, Clarisse releases me. I take deep, gasping breaths for air as the soldiers pull me to my feet.

They open the door to the torture chamber and throw me inside. I stumble but manage to catch myself against the wall to avoid falling.

"Good morning," says an artificially friendly voice from the other side of the room. I don't have to look up to know it's the king, but I look up and meet his eyes anyway.

"Fuck you," I say.

The king ignores my vulgar choice of words. "Are you excited for today? I would like to remind you that you are not a prisoner here. You can leave at any time—you have an easy out. If you punch me—or, if you're too scared to punch me, pinching will do—then you can be free from this."

"I forgive you," I tell him instead, and I know I look a little arrogant when I say it, but I don't care—let my expression be smug. It makes him drop the false kindness and at least be honest about who he really is and what he's really doing to me. That's what's important—it doesn't matter that the forgiveness is a lie, and it doesn't matter that I'd rather put my fist through his face.

The King strides closer to me and doesn't stop until we're face-to-face, his breath hot on my face. He grabs me by the wing—probably hoping it would hurt, not yet realizing that the bone is no longer fractured—and pulls me toward the middle of the room. The chair is gone today, so I'm left standing in front of him instead.