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FLASHBACK II

ROMIRO

Age:13

T he room isn’t quiet, but the sounds start fading. The murmurs, the clinking chains, the faint cries from somewhere far off—it all blurs into static, buzzing faintly at the edge of my awareness. My eyes are open, staring at nothing, the cracks in the concrete floor shifting in and out of focus. My chest rises and falls, but I don’t feel the air moving in or out. I don’t feel anything.

It’s better this way.

The fog is thick, wrapping around my mind like a cocoon. It dulls everything, keeps the pain and the fear at arm’s length. I sink into it, letting it pull me under. There’s no need to fight it. Fighting doesn’t change anything.

I don’t even think about the others anymore. Their voices blend together, a mix of cries and whispers. I used to care. I used to wonder if they’d survive—if I’d survive. Now, it all feels pointless.

My body is here, but my mind drifts. It floats somewhere distant, untouchable. Flashes of the past come and go, jumbled and indistinct. My mother’s face, blurry and faded. The sound of my own laugh—a laugh that sounds strange now, like it belongs to someone else. My brother’s sharp gaze. The way the sky looked when I used to play outside. Blue. I try to remember the color blue, but it feels fake, like something I imagined.

The thought comes, unbidden, cutting through the haze like a knife. I don’t want to be here anymore.

Not in this room. Not in this body. Not in this life.

I’m tired. My legs ache from sitting in the same place for too long. My ribs hurt from the last time I was being “defiant.” But the worst pain isn’t in my body. It’s somewhere deeper, somewhere I can’t reach.

Death feels like a promise, distant but certain. It waits patiently, just out of reach. I think about it often. What it would feel like to finally let go, to stop breathing, to sink into nothing and never come back. The idea doesn’t scare me. It’s the only thing that doesn’t.

Maybe death will be quiet, I think, the words slow and sluggish in my mind. Maybe it will be dark and empty, and I won’t have to feel anything anymore.

But another thought follows, creeping in like a dark cloud…

Maybe death is just another kind of chain.

Even in death, I wonder if I’d be free. What if it’s worse? What if there’s nothing but the same—the same fear, the same pain, the same emptiness?

The sound of the door creaking open cuts through the stillness. My head stays down, eyes locked on the stained floor. Heavy footsteps echo, sharp and deliberate. I don’t flinch. I know what comes next.

They’re dragging someone in. A girl. Her screams ricochet off the walls, desperate and raw. The scrape of her shoes against the ground fills the room, every movement a battle she’s already lost. Once they have you, they never let you go. Not without a price. Death or money.

“No! Let me go! Let me go!” she yells, voice cracking. Her fight feels distant, like a memory I don’t want to touch. My chest tightens, but I don’t move. I don’t look. I’ve learned not to.

The new ones always fight. They haven’t learned yet. Not like us. Not like me.

We’ve all been dragged through the same routine. The punishment takes care of the fight. The rape takes care of the spirit. Most of them stop resisting after the first time. Some last longer. It doesn’t matter. It all ends the same.

Her screams turn to ragged sobs. The sound fading into the static in my head. I press myself deeper into the corner, my back against the cold wall. She doesn’t know yet—none of them do—that hope only makes it worse. Hope is a poison that keeps you trying long after it’s cost you everything.

The static grows louder, filling the space in my head, drowning out the whispers of my thoughts. The fog thickens again, pulling me deeper. I let it. There’s nothing else to do. I keep staring at the floor, at the cracks in the concrete that never seem to lead anywhere. Just lines, splitting and curling and going nowhere. Like me.

I close my eyes and wait.

For what, I don’t know. For nothing, maybe.