𝐇𝐞 𝐢𝐬 𝐡𝐞𝐫 𝐑𝐞𝐝𝐞𝐞𝐦𝐞𝐫, 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐬𝐡𝐞 𝐢𝐬 𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐆𝐨𝐝𝐝𝐞𝐬𝐬.
Love is hope for the hopeless and sin for the saint. Love makes you do things you never intended to do, but it's distinct when you hold hands and promise to behold each oth...
Warning: Torture, Murder, Inhuman treatment, Sexual Assault.
This chapter only consists of the past
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4 YEARS AGO...
Age: Nahella- 13 yrs, Rutvik- 15 yrs
When you're a prisoner, there is no compassion. The guards tied my hands behind my back and secured me to a pillar, my eyes blindfolded. The metal of the pillar, heated by the sun's rays, burns against my skin. The most agonizing part, however, is that I'm kneeling on the ground, restrained by iron chains.
The sunlight is unbearable, and my throat feels like it's on fire from thirst. Hunger gnaws at me too, but thirst is worse. How many more hours will I have to endure this heat? They didn't even give me my morning meal. Getting water in a place like this is a luxury. When you ask for it, sometimes they mock you by offering another prisoner's sweat, squeezed from their soaked cloth. Other times, they force you to drink alcohol or spit into your food and water.
Is life outside the cell this cruel too?
If I don't get water soon, I might pass out here. I wish I could scream for help, but I can't risk it. The guards warned me before they left: if I make any noise, I'll be thrown into the Rage Room. So I kneel in silence, on this scorched ground, under the merciless heat.
My skin is starting to blister. When will they take me back to my cell?
Is life outside the prison this hard too?
If I don't get water soon, I might black out. I want to scream, but the guard's warning rings in my head. No noise, they'd said, or I'd be dragged to the Rage Room. The scorching heat presses down on me, and the ground beneath feels like it's burning my skin. When will they take me back to my cell? My skin feels like it's fuming.
"H-Hello?"
A soft, hesitant voice reaches my ears.
A girl. She sounds young-maybe my age or younger. What is she doing here? Should I speak?
Before I can decide, I hear the faint scrape of a steel bowl being dragged across the floor. A bowl? Did the guard leave it here? Or is she a guard herself? But her voice... it's so gentle and young.
The next moment, there's the sound of liquid being poured into the bowl.
Water? Sweat? Something else? I don't care. My throat is parched, and burning. Whatever it is, I'll drink it. I have to.
"I'm sorry. My hands won't reach your face, so I poured the water into the bowl," she says. The bowl scrapes closer, her voice carrying an apologetic tone I've never heard directed at me. Sorry? To a prisoner? My prisoner number, even? I can't wrap my head around it.
I lower myself cautiously, unsure where the bowl is.
"A little more," she instructs gently.
I follow her voice, lowering myself further until my nose brushes the liquid. No smell. It's water.
