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I Will Survive This

Hypothetical Question: If you could inject someone with an emotion instead of poison, what would you pick? I’m thinking crippling regret for a fun change

Carina

The cold seeps into my skin as I stare at the ceiling in the room—the same sterile, lifeless box I woke up in. The sharp tang of bleach lingers in the air, clinging to everything, as if it could erase the misery etched into these walls.

It can't.

Nothing can.

My bare feet scrape against the rough concrete floor, the faint sound swallowed by the oppressive silence. It's been a week. Maybe more. Time moves differently here, stretched thin by the monotony of waiting. The days blur, melting into each other, bleeding into an endless cycle of nothing.

I’ve been dragged down here twice since my father hauled me upstairs.

The first time—I almost made it.

I can still feel the night air in my lungs, the sharp burn of adrenaline pumping through my veins as I ran, the gravel biting into my feet. The taste of freedom was there, right there—until iron hands snatched me back, yanking me to the ground like I was nothing. The bruises have faded now—purple to sickly yellow—but the humiliation clings to me like a second skin.

The second time, I didn't even fight.

I couldn't stomach the way he looked at me. The guest at dinner. His eyes lingered too long, and he spoke about me like I wasn't even in the room. Like I was a thing to be acquired. My father's voice had been cold, calculated. "Play nice." And when I didn't?

Back to the cage.

Now, I wait. Again.

But the silence—it's different this time. It's heavier like it's waiting for something.

I pace, the room shrinking with every step. My fingers trail along the cot's metal frame, the only thing in here besides a bolted-down chair. I touch it to feel something real. The light overhead flickers, casting shifting shadows that crawl along the walls.

I clench my fists, pressing my nails into my palms until the pain centres me. I can't let this place get inside my head. I won't let him win.

But then Nate’s face drifts into my mind, unbidden. His smile. His warmth. The way his arms wrapped around me that last time, holding me like I was something precious.

The memory hits me like a physical blow, stealing the air from my lungs.

I squeeze my eyes shut, but it only makes it worse. His scent is still there, buried somewhere deep in my mind. The ache in my chest spreads, sharp and relentless. I press a hand to my ribs, as if I could hold myself together, keep the pieces from falling apart.

Focus. Breathe.

I force myself to count my breaths, each one shaky but deliberate. I survived before. I’ll survive this. I have to.

But there’s a voice in the back of my mind, creeping in like the shadows that dance across the walls. Quiet. Insistent.

This is different.

It’s not just about surviving anymore. It’s about what I’ve felt—what I’ve had. True happiness. True love. Nate’s arms around me, his voice cutting through the chaos, grounding me. That feeling of safety, of belonging—it’s a light I can’t unsee. And now, trapped in this cold, sterile cage, it feels impossibly far away, a cruel dream just out of reach.

Footsteps echo outside the door. My body trembles involuntarily, and I curse myself for it.

The heavy metal groans as it swings open, revealing my father. He fills the doorway, his presence suffocating. Behind him, Martha—the housekeeper—hovers awkwardly, eyes downcast.

“It’s time to fix your appearance,” he states, striding toward me.

I don’t flinch, no matter how much I want to. Instead, I lift my chin in defiance and refuse to speak.

His hand shoots out, gripping my hair, dragging me toward the chair in the centre of the room. I fight back, lashing out and raking my nails across his face. He snarls, catching my wrists, yanking them behind me, and binding them to the chair.

“Fuck you,” I hiss.

He merely shakes his head. As he turns away, he tosses Martha a bag, barely sparing me a glance of disgust before disappearing through the door.

Martha shuffles closer, pulling out a box of—

No.

Fuck no.

“Don’t do this,” I whisper, my voice cracking with raw vulnerability.

She says nothing. Instead, she grips my head tightly and begins dyeing my hair.

I thrash, trying to twist free, but she’s stronger than she looks. Each strand coated in dark dye splinters something inside me. They’re erasing me. Stripping Carina Rossetti from existence.

When she’s done, she leaves without a word. Only then do I let the tears fall, silent sobs shaking my body. I feel like I’m mourning a loss.

At some point, exhaustion pulls me under.

Until a sharp, icy shock yanks me back.

Water crashes over me, seeping through my clothes, chilling me to the bone.

“What the fu—” Another bucket douses me before I can finish. I sputter, gasping, blinking against the cold.

My father looms over me, a cruel sneer curling his lips.

“This is a much better look on you, Naomi. None of that pink crap.”

My jaw tightens. I won’t give him the satisfaction of a reaction. My glare burns into him, unwavering, until he finally sighs and unties my wrists.

Without another word, he leaves.

And once again, I’m alone.

With nothing but my thoughts.

I sink onto the cot, the metal frame groaning under my weight. My fingers knot in the fabric of my dress, the tightness in my chest threatening to pull me under.

I want to believe this will end. That I’ll get out. That I’ll see Nate again. But hope—it’s dangerous. Hope is a blade, and I’ve been cut too many times.

Taking a breath, shaky but resolute, I force my mind back to the present. The steady thud of my heartbeat fills my ears, grounding me. Relentless. Defiant.

I will survive this. I will get out.

For Nate. For me.

And when I do, my father will regret every second he thought he could keep me caged.