Rewritten in Blood and Time

- prologue -

A/N = yes, nothing is supposed to make sense right now. She's quite insane, and therefore cannot process things without going off track. This is what could be seen as a flashback, so in the next chapter she will not have these behaviour patterns.

This is Rewritten in Blood and Time.

Enjoy.

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Sixteen. One hundred and sixteen days. I have been falling in my mind for one hundred and sixteen days. I do not understand any of it.

Light flashes. On. Off. On. Off. Fifty six times, and then some more. On. Off. On. Off. They flicker and I cannot tell whether I am blind or not. I see black, simple black until a light is shone onto forced shut eyelids and orange engulfs me. On. Off. I keep counting and counting until I hear a scream. Loud, so loud. It is only when they muffle the sound that I realise it's my own.

They drill into my skin, so so slowly but I cannot see. I feel pain -- only pain -- and a numbness from my pale fingers. Atleast, I remember they were once pale.. From lack of exposure to sunlight, they must still be. But nothing is as it seems here, and I cannot tell how long I have been here for. Lost, so lost. Stranded around walls that are as evil as humans, my own kind, with their cold, hard looks. Forgiveable? No. I don't believe so.

My body jerks upwards and I find myself panting, sweat beaded on my forehead. My fingers twist around a thin layer of ash clothing, fidgeting from the memories. The terror. My dinner threatens to arise, a plate of indedible gruel fed to the starving. People like me. I force the feeling down, wrapping unsleeved arms around myself.

A man comes, regularly as if I were his daily programme - fit for amusement - and tells me it will all be okay.

I do not believe this man.

He smiles, a cold smile that does not quite reach his eyes. The irises' a shade of alabaster, provoking an unsettling feeling deep inside. He tells me it will all be okay.
It is not all okay.

Screams have left my tongue, a feeble projectile against the harm done. I scream until day breaks, and then I scream some more.

From the small window I am blessed with, a cloudless night is shown, without stars in sight from the endless light pollution. It is still pitch-black, and I am once more enveloped in a package of loneliness. I succumb to the dark as it consumes me, seeking peace. I accept its grief day after day after day, hoping to find comfort. I never do. Only in darkness can I fool my mind into thinking there is something there with me. But light, light is the sun -- scorching my eyes and feigning idiocy. And then? Then I can no longer pretend everything is alright.

And yet, he tells me it will all be okay.

Against the cooling glare of the red dot, I am driven mad. It tracks my every move, taunting me. It's a signal -- no, a warning -- against the horrors of punishment. And still, they mock me, daring defiance. However, I am not that niave. I hear the yells, their pleas for peace, their cries. They scream for mercy, and it is never gifted.

I have not moved in a while.

And so I count. Counting is the sole thing that stops the alerts of my brainwaves. It is a tranquilising movement in which they can never see my thoughts.

And so I count: one light, three sheets and two hundred cracks, each owning a single oynx splatter on every brick. It is imperfection, required to be perfect. This pattern repeats as its own makeshift prison. One door, three bars, and two men stationed outside. It is like they want to drive me to insanity.

One hundred and sixteen. He tells me it will all be okay. A hundred and sixteen days ago, I do not remember pain such like this.