A Beautiful Reflection From Firework Eyes

I Don't Wanna Feel A Thing Anymore

(Three months ago)

I've lost all energy. I don't care how much they hit me, how much they scream. I just can't bring myself to do anything. I'm so cold all the time—the fires all gone out. The light has shattered inside of me, leaving only the empty darkness.

What would Jaime say if he saw me now? I'm mostly healed—the new stitches they gave me did the trick. It's been two months, and I can move properly again. The pain is no longer in my stomach every time I breathe. I no longer need painkillers or bandages. If only they could stitch up my heart the same way.

They drag me to the Dark Room, slamming the door shut and leaving me alone. At this point, I don't even care. I shift against the wall, so the shackles aren't digging into my wrists and try to sleep, but I know I won't be able to.

Usually, I would try to escape, try to melt through the shackles, but I don't anymore. It wasn't of any use anyways. The metal was too thick for me to make any more than a small indent.

So I just rest my head against my arms, ignoring the crick in my neck and stare at the faint light shining in through the mostly blocked off window. I used to be able to get lost in my head, daydreaming of everything and anything. Now there's nothing left in my mind except for painful memories and bitter thoughts. I try to close my eyes, try to sleep, but I'm almost scared to. Because every single time I close my eyes, all I can see is the escape. My dreams are haunted by blood and gunshots.

Seeing the hallway doesn't bother me anymore. I thought it would, but it doesn't. Not after the first time when I couldn't move after seeing the hallway, when I couldn't breathe through the weight in my lungs and eventually, I couldn't stand as the floor rushed up toward me, and everything faded away.

Neither does my now empty room. Even as I am staring at the empty bed or the empty other half of the room. Every so often, I remember glimpses of Jaime sitting on the bed or laughing. But it's almost like he was never really there. Like a ghost almost. If not for the memories and the dreams, I'd think that I almost dreamed of those six months.

I move through every day like I'm sleepwalking. Everything numb around me, just a gray blur. Not responding when I'm talked to, not reacting to the pain when they hit me because it's nothing compared to the pain within.

And then, eventually, I don't have any energy left to rebel. It's like a little voice whispers, what's the whole point? The more they notice me, the worse it will get. The more they remind me of that day. The more my memories grow teeth, the more my dreams try to strangle me as I see his face over and over again, reaching for me as I'm held back, unable to fight.

So I try to disappear instead. I shrink back into myself, following orders, keeping my head down, keeping silent. Try to forget, try to move on with my life, even though I'm drowning in the memories. Mr. Styles smiles at me, saying I'm making progress, that I'm learning. But I don't think so. It's the most powerful I've ever been, but I don't feel strong. I feel weak. I am weak. For not being able to save him, for not being angry enough to destroy everything. For keeping my head down, for not taking revenge. I'm ashamed that I'm not fighting back. But I'm too tired to do anything about it.

I feel so goddamn empty. There's really nothing left. There's no point. I'm never getting out of here. I've accepted that.