Page 10

9

FLASHBACK I

ROMIRO

Age - 13

I sit in the corner, away from the harsh light of the bulb. My skin rubs against the concrete floor. My knees are pulled to my chest, arms tight around them.

Chains sway above, clinking together as a draft sneaks through the broken window. The air stinks of rust and decay, sharp and sour. The room feels huge, sounds bouncing off the walls. Most of the time, it’s quiet. Too quiet—until it isn’t.

When the noise comes, I wish it didn’t.

A scream cuts through, raw and sharp. A girl. Her voice cracks, breaking into sobs, and then stops. The silence after is worse. It stretches, waiting for something to follow. A slam. A voice. But nothing comes. Just the dark.

I don’t know how long I’ve been here. Days and nights blur together. They only come when they need to. They throw food on the floor. Bread that’s hard, soup that smells rotten. Sometimes they don’t come at all. The hunger aches, then fades.

Hunger doesn’t matter anymore.

Breathing fills the dark. Someone coughs, wet and rough, but no one talks. Talking makes this place too real. Silence is safer. So, we sit, lost souls in shadows, waiting for the next sound.

The bulb swings and shadows slide across the walls. Graffiti marks the concrete—names and scratches left by others.

One word shows up over and over: RUN.

I almost laugh. Run where?

The table in the center sits empty for now. Chains hang nearby, stained with old blood. My eyes flick to it before I can stop myself.

I don’t think about what happens there. Thinking hurts.

My nails dig into my skin, sharp and grounding. It pulls me out of the fog that always hovers, waiting to pull me under. I let it sometimes. It’s easier than feeling. Easier than knowing.

The door creaks open at the far end. My chest tightens, but I don’t move. Moving gets you noticed. Footsteps echo, slow and heavy. One. Two. Three. I count to steady myself. Metal scrapes the floor, dragging something. Someone.

I don’t look.

“Get up,” a rough voice orders. No one moves. A scream, a thud, and more dragging. The door slams, and the silence comes back, heavier than before. No one breathes. No one shifts.

The bulb flickers, and shadows twist on the walls. I follow them with my eyes. They mean nothing, but it’s better than looking at the chains, the table, the door.

She said we were going somewhere better. Her voice was soft, almost kind. Moms aren’t supposed to do this, but she did. The memory stabs at my mind. I push it back into the fog where it belongs.

The fog thickens, dulling everything. The screams, the chains, the stink. It wraps around me, cutting me off. The others fade. The room fades. Even the table fades. Just the dark stays, and I sink into it.

The bulb swings. Chains clink. A faint cry fades into the walls. I close my eyes and let the dark take me. It’s safer there.