Page 1 of The Scars Within (Twisted Thorn #1)

The pounding of hooves on dirt yanked me from another pitiful attempt at rest. I had finally managed to inhale enough clean air to calm myself and drift off. I never know how long I’m out—minutes, maybe hours—but never long enough to ease my pounding headache.

I call it the stampede. It happens frequently and is always accompanied by a cheering crowd. On stampede days, the noise fills most of the day and even occasionally through the night. I can never tell; I sit in complete darkness at all times.

The only relief from the darkness comes when they open the door. A sliver of sunlight will scald my eyes if I keep them open, so I usually shield myself from the burn. But the burn was the least of my worries when my captors were here.

Jaelyn used to be with me until they got tired of her fighting back. For some reason, they never tortured me the way they did her. I don’t know where she is or if she’s even alive. They took her a long time ago. If my cycle is any indicator, it’s been seven months since I was left alone.

And fourteen months before that .

The stench of my filth has become so normal that I don’t even notice it anymore. The men used to give me a waste bucket until I grew enough confidence to elbow one of them in the face when they came to replace it.

I gave up on myself a long time ago when I realized Jaelyn wasn’t coming back. I let go of my future, of myself. These iron shackles were now a part of my skin. I would say they’re my identity, but I’ve let go of that, too. I’m an empty husk of who I used to be.

I knew I was done when I felt no pain.

I knew I was ready to throw this fight.

The ropes that once held me captive were long enough to reach a rusty nail poking from the wooden wall.

It was about as long as my middle finger but still sharp at the end.

I saw it once when they opened the door on a bright morning.

The sunlight beamed off the one rustless spot, signaling its presence.

For over a year, I thought of that rusty nail as a symbol of myself.

It was bent at an odd angle, tarnished by years of misuse, but still sharp enough at the point.

Every time I saw that nail light up, it was like a beacon of hope, a silly little light in my heart that said I would make it out alive.

It was a fucking pathetic beacon.

Nobody came for me.

I’m stuck in a place nobody will ever find… unless one day someone can magically read my mind.

After Jaelyn, nobody fought for me. Nobody cared that I had just disappeared. I didn’t know where I was or what kind of building I was in, but one thing was certain.

This is my Rock Bottom.

The men refused to hurt me too badly but wouldn’t let me leave.

They wouldn’t even hint at why I was taken and kept here.

All they did was ridicule me, leaving me to lie in my own filth.

Sometimes, they used their hands to punish me for my foul mouth.

I tried being a pest for a while, hoping they’d grow tired of me and end it all.

I wanted to make it worse so that someone would make that final call.

But they didn’t. They only wanted to keep me here, at Rock Bottom, as their pet. I was as useless as that bent, rusty nail sticking from the wall.

After they delivered the worst beating of my life but still didn’t finish the job, I knew I had given up on myself.

I laid there, face down on the filthy dirt, breathing the soiled air into my lungs with every gasp.

That was when I realized my previous bravery was a fool.

My bravery led me to believe that I was at my lowest low.

But the truth was—there were many, many more layers to my Rock Bottom.

I stayed like that for days.

Until I rose from Rock Bottom, stumbled over to my beacon, and punished myself for being fooled. I pressed my left arm’s upper muscles into that beacon’s sharp point and waited. I waited for fear to bubble up through my chest. I waited for instinct to take over. But it never came.

I was done.

I surrendered to the darkness in my soul.

I balanced what little weight I had on my left foot, getting the perfect angle. And I apologized. I apologized to myself for not being strong enough, for not being worthy enough to do something good in this life. I apologized for letting Rock Bottom become my home.

Then I shoved myself down and against the nail.

My beacon of hope was now the knife that slashed through my muscles.

I had been numb for so long; I just needed to feel something.

I used my beacon of hope to cause myself physical pain so that I could feel something other than the pain inside.

But I felt nothing. I didn’t cry as the blood gushed down my arm.

I didn’t gasp; I didn’t shake. I was numb, inside and out.

Now, I had a bloody, rusty nail as a beacon of despair.

I was left alone long enough for the blood to dry completely and the wound begin to swell with the first signs of infection.

Even in my haze, I could sense something different outside.

Unlike the relentless stampede that passed by most days, this sound was heavier and more deliberate.

It rumbled like distant thunder, a steady pulse that echoed over and over, reverberating in the air for hours until it finally faded.

After the men discovered the new gash on my arm, the loose ropes around my hands turned into iron shackles around my wrists and ankles, with a chain short enough that I could only stand up halfway. They forced me to swallow a medicinal liquid to prevent infection.

They had to keep me alive but wouldn’t let me live.

They made me fight but wouldn’t let me lose.

A loud crack jolted me from my useless thoughts. The stampede always shook the walls, but this was more impactful than usual. I heard a deep scream, and the scalding sunlight burned my eyes as the door burst open. I cowered in my corner, trying to scream but only managing a raspy wheeze.

I hid my face behind my forearms and the iron shackles, trying to make myself appear as small as possible.

But the footsteps came closer and closer.

The one responsible for the busted door growled under their breath and then yanked on my chains.

I tried to kick back, but they shoved me down, pressing their knee into my body.

I felt as weak as an ant being stepped on by a wolf.

They yanked my arms from my face and started messing with the shackles around my wrists, though I couldn’t imagine them getting any tighter.

The metal cut into my skin as they fumbled with the locks, their grip rough and unyielding.

My vision blurred from the sudden light and the fast movement, but I caught a glimpse of the hands fooling with my shackles—they looked just like mine.

Those hands freed my wrists and then moved to my ankles.

Both sets of iron shackles clanked when they hit the ground together.

“The rest is up to you,” said a raspy voice.

Then they left. Or was I imagining the whole thing? Had I somehow gone into a trance, my subconscious finding a way to break open my shackles? I was so out of it; I will never know

But I did know one thing…

I was free.

I couldn’t stand up quickly, so I crawled towards the door, trying to be as quiet as possible in case the men were standing guard around my Rock Bottom. I peeked through the cracks but saw no one near. I could still hear the stampede and the cheers.

I pulled the door open slowly, quietly—still, nobody.

Using the door as leverage, I forced my body to stand.

Every muscle and nerve in my body screamed in pain.

My joints stretched after months of being stationary.

It felt like I had been doused in flames, but I got myself up on my own two feet.

I turned to see what kind of hell my Rock Bottom was—a shed. An old wooden shed had imprisoned me.

I had broken through the iron shackles meant to keep me down.

And I pulled myself up off the ground. I climbed my way out of Rock Bottom with my bare hands, the dirt under my nails as proof.

I walked back into the sunlight after two years of being broken.

I may have stumbled after a few steps, but I got myself back up once again.

I kept dragging my feet, one in front of the other, through the woods, following an old cobblestone path.

To anyone else, it might have taken twenty minutes.

But to me, it felt like days until I made it to the end of the road and turned to see a stadium with bleachers full of a cheering crowd.

Then I saw what caused the commotion that I called the stampede. I was right on the nail.

Oh, the irony.

It was horse racing. While I was a prisoner in a shed, competitive horse races were being held next door. While I lay in my own filth, people were here for entertainment. While I starved to death, people spent their coins on greasy foods to fill their stomachs.

And nobody knew I was here.

Nobody came to rescue me.

Nobody cared.

And now– nobody is here to stop me .

For the first time in I don’t know how long, I felt an emotion. A knot in my throat stole my breath. My gut hollowed out. I felt the fiery heat of anger burning through my chest. I didn’t know what I did to deserve this life, but I am damn sure tired of playing with the cards I was dealt.

Even if I’m alive, I’ll never live.

Even if I fight, I’ll always lose.

I stumbled my way towards the track, ignoring the gasps of terror as villagers spotted me. I must look like I just crawled out of my grave.

I want them to witness the depth of my suffering. I want them to feel the weight of their guilt as they see my misery. I want them to know that while they enjoyed their lives, an innocent nearby had been living in hell.

Because I am finally in control. And I am finally free to end my suffering.

Tears streamed down my face, mingling with the dirt and grime. My body shook with sobs, the pain and anguish of the past two years pouring out of me in a torrent.

The racers were all on the other side of the track while I pushed through—or more likely fell through—the flimsy wooden railing that encircled the course.

I tripped and landed on my hands and knees in the dirt. Then, I began to crawl because I lacked the energy to get back on my feet. The crowd’s cheers died, replaced by murmurs of confusion and concern. I feel numb, detached from my own body, my mind a haze of exhaustion and pain.

I heard someone shout, but it was like a distant echo.

Nobody can stop me now. I refuse to let fate win another round.

So– I keep moving forward, inch by inch, towards the center of the track.

The racers are almost to my end of the course, the pounding of hooves growing louder with each passing second .

I sit back on my heels, my body trembling, my voice barely a whisper.

“H–” I tried to speak, but my throat was dry, the words catching in my mouth.

What is the point of fighting anymore?

The horses grew nearer. I closed my eyes, feeling the vibrations of their approach through the ground.

“Hit–” I choked out, my voice a raspy plea.

Life is a fight that I don’t want to win.

A horn started to sound off in the distance, signaling the racers to stop.

“Hit me,” I screamed, my voice breaking.

I won’t be missed.

“Hit me!” I screamed again, louder this time, the words tearing from my throat with desperate force.

I surrender.

“HIT ME!”