Kiss of Fate

PTSD

I sighed, leaning back against the cold wall of the cell. Gods, it was boring here, locked up like this. Jingle and Jangle had left me alone for now, probably scrambling to make sense of everything I'd said. I could almost picture them pacing in some dimly lit hallway, muttering to each other as they tried to figure out whether I was bluffing.

The silence was unbearable, broken only by the occasional creak of the metal door or the hum of a flickering light above. If they thought this was punishment, they had no idea how comfortable I was with the quiet. Still, I couldn’t just sit around forever; I needed a way out.

I stretched my legs out in front of me, tapping my fingers on my knee as I weighed my options. My escape would have to be clever, maybe a bit risky, but I had a feeling they weren’t prepared for the tricks I had up my sleeve. After all, if they’d underestimated me once, they’d likely do it again. And I was ready to take advantage of every single mistake they made.

I scanned the room, smirking as I spotted the cameras tucked into the corners. These guys really thought a couple of old security cams would keep them in control. "Amateurs," I muttered, taking off my glasses and rubbing the bridge of my nose.

Standing up, I stretched lazily and gave the nearest camera a casual wave, putting on my best bored expression. "Hey, Jingle! Jangle! Any chance you could send down a snack or maybe a book?" I said with a wry grin. "Or are we just gonna sit here all night?"

There was no response, of course, but I knew I was getting under their skin. So I leaned into the act a little more. I paced around, humming an off-key tune, tapping on the cell bars like they were my personal drum kit. It wasn’t much, but at least it passed the time—and maybe, just maybe, it would push them into making a mistake.

I slumped back onto the bed, a frustrated sigh escaping me. I could feel the silence pressing in, stretching out the seconds into a maddening crawl. If I didn’t find something to focus on soon, my mind would start wandering, picking up on echoes and shadows that weren’t even there. And that… well, that was the last thing anyone needed.

Trying to shake off the unease, I closed my eyes and let out a long breath, counting slowly. One… two… three… four… But the quiet was heavy, too thick, creeping in and seeping under my skin. I could almost hear faint whispers threading through the silence, just on the edge of my hearing, and I knew it was my mind playing tricks. I dug my nails into my palms, forcing myself to stay anchored, to focus on the feel of the rough bedding beneath me.

"Come on," I muttered to the empty room, hoping for anything—any slip-up from them that might shake things up. But the silence stretched, thick and heavy, pressing down on me with a suffocating weight. All I could do was wait.

Then, barely audible at first, came a whisper—a familiar voice slipping through the silence, like a ghost brushing past. The murmur was soft, almost blending into the hum of the building, but it grew louder, insistently clawing its way to the forefront of my mind. I clutched the bridge of my glasses, the bow quivering between my fingers.

"He’s not real," I muttered to myself, squeezing my eyes shut as if I could block out the voice that wasn’t there. "He’s not real."

But the whispers only grew bolder, slipping through the cracks in my resolve. I could hear every quiet taunt, every echo of memories I’d buried deep. The cameras in the room whirred softly, refocusing, zooming in as if my captors knew I was unraveling, as if they wanted to watch every flicker of my composure slip away.

I took a sharp breath, forcing my hands to steady, but the whispers still crawled through my mind, relentless, stirring old fears. I could feel the weight of the cameras’ gaze, a silent audience to the torment that gnawed at me. Every time I caught movement out of the corner of my eye—every slight shift in the shadows—it felt like he was just out of reach, lurking, watching.