Chapter 1

“Log one: August twenty-first of twenty-thirty-five. Today is move-in day! Oh my goodness, project W.H.I.P is finally on its way! It has been countless months of preparations and meetings, but we are finally here! Ellie is bringing in the second truck, but I’ll be sure to get her in on the next recording. I still can’t believe this is happening!

“This place is way too big for the two of us to take care of, but it’s worth a try. If we succeed, this will change everything. Is this possible? I’m not quite sure! Are we going to try anyway? Of course we are! I still don’t understand how we’ve made it this far. This bonkers plan was just an idea that sounded good enough to work. If you ask me, it sounds like something out of a science fiction novel, but I believe Ellie and I have a couple of good heads on our shoulders. Besides, Ellie probably knows what she’s doing! At least more than I do.

“I know I’ve already said it, but I’ll say it again: I can not believe it! We’re finally head researchers! We have a rather long road ahead of us, and I hope to keep up on these recordings during this journey. It’s good to have some documentation for when we complete this incredible project! Oh, who am I kidding? I’m not quite sure if this is even going to work. The technology given to us barely functions as is. Everyone says that we have lost our marbles for trying, so I say let’s prove them wrong! Even if we get remotely close to a working product, it still would be considered remarkable.

“We’re going to make some history here. I can feel it! But until then, I think this recording is over. I’m going to keep this one short since we still have quite a bit to do. Until the next one, This is Dr. Lilywise, signing off!”

A needle pierces my skin, digging deep into my back until it scratches against the metallic surface of the device crookedly lodged in my vertebra. With a quick push, it injects itself into the pre-made outlet with a snap that reverberates throughout the underside of my flesh.

One. Two. Three needles puncture themselves along my spine on top of the scars from when I was cut open to begin their experimentation.

The sound of clicking keyboards and devices powering on turns my stomach, as I know this ritual all too well.

Brace.

No, this early? They haven’t even begun.

Brace.

There’s no way they would mess up this early. It’s usually ten, maybe fifteen minutes into testing that it actually begins to happen. I don’t need to brace this ear-

“Brace.”

I jolt awake with a gasp, staring vacantly at the same old popcorn ceiling. Taking a couple of seconds to cool down, I lay my hand over my eyes and wait until my breathing slows to a calm pace. My aching arms creak while propping me up and unpeeling my sweaty body from the bed. The muscles along my back begin to tighten into a ball, aching with every minor adjustment. I pull my arms above my head in one long stretch, hearing the orchestra of small pops and cracks along the spine harmonize in the confined space. It springs loose again, unwinding from the fetal sleeping position.

My dry eyes scan around at the same four dense walls that incarcerate me. A sizeable metal door looms over me on the other side of the room, with its minuscule crack on the rectangular window fragmenting the dim light of the hall. The fluorescent lights that illuminate the hall are brighter than the singular bulb hanging down from my ceiling by a thin wire, blinking with enough power to stay on. It’s bound to burn out any day now. Taking a deep breath of the air contaminated by the disgusting sewage-filled toilet, my soul leaves my body once again.

"Two hundred," I deliberate, looking at the wall of tick marks above the toilet. I used to dig whatever was leftover from my nails into that wall in the dark every night, nine o’clock on the dot when the light in my cell went out. Some of the scratches overlap, but I’m not to blame for that. It’s not easy to aim in the dark. I’ve recently given up aimlessly scratching at it in hopes of keeping a record. Why was I even counting? It’s not like I know when I’m going to get out. If I ever do.

It was never my choice to come here. Hell, I would avoid this place at all costs if I could. But honestly, I don’t think I deserve to be here in the first place. These people didn’t toss me into a cell because I was some sort of criminal; I’ve never stolen, murdered, or even jaywalked.

On top of that, I’m pretty sure this is not a prison. The memory of when they took me remains in the back of my mind like an old stain. I remember that cold December night.

After getting picked up by the van, I woke up in this same cell with all twenty inches of my curly hair stolen from me; as I had been shaved down to a buzzcut while unconscious. Ten days later they returned to my cell and knocked me unconscious once again. That was when they performed their first surgery on me, leaving disgusting stitches on the back of my head. It’s difficult to explain, but that initial operation altered something in my memory.

The anesthesia wore off, and a horrific feeling of Déjà Vu hung over me. I had never seen this place in my life, but all of a sudden, I knew facts that no one ever told me: we eat lunch at one in the afternoon, dinner at seven, and the lights go out at nine. The sudden memory of this facility being deep underground hit me like a truck. My mind registered that the likelihood of someone finding us was close to none, and the realization grasped me by the throat to choke all hope out of me.

Something about this room. Something about these halls. Something about the people who ran the show. A memoizable terror ran through me with no memories. I know this place. I knew this place. But from where?

Finally, to wrap up the horrific look, I was given a tattoo on my right-hand hours after the initial surgery: “JA209”. I still don’t know what it means or why it was given to me. Luckily, most of these detrimental procedures were executed while I was unconscious. I say “most” because I was unlucky enough to have woken up mid-way through the tattooing process.

My memory skips around during those couple of seconds, but I remember gaining awareness and realizing I had been strapped down to a chair by two belts, each one punctured with a new hole to ensure it was tight enough to keep me bound. The tattoo machine vigorously scratched into my burning skin, and it was clear that Dr. Malva didn’t know how to work the device. In my confused state, I looked around the room and, unfortunately, made eye contact with her at that moment.

Out of pure panic, I screamed in hopes that someone would hear me. A part of me wanted to believe I had a possibility to change my fate if I screamed loud enough. That maybe someone would come to rescue me if they heard my plead. But those disconnected memories argued otherwise, reminding me that the depths of this facility’s location ensured that my cries were no use. Malva took out a small rag to silence my nose and mouth. In a matter of minutes, I was out again.

God. Just thinking her name gives me chills. Have you ever stood at the edge of a high place and got that deep guttural fear? You know the kind where your stomach turns the more you think about it? It’s that odd kind of fear, as it doesn’t come from the present moment when you recognize the situation you’ve found yourself in; but rather what is to come if you were to take one misstep. The idea that if you were foolish enough to do anything but back away, you may as well be signing your own death certificate. That’s what fires throughout my body whenever I find myself in a room with her.

These secondary memories latched onto her too. Something about her shot fear into my heart from day one. Just hearing her walk or making eye contact with her feels like she may as well put a knife up to my throat and whisper all the different ways she can bleed me out on her disgusting floor.

As long as I’ve been here, it’s been evident that Malva is, and will always be, in charge. Her lab partner, Lily, was at least somewhat friendly, but only when she could be. It’s always been the weirdest push and pull between those two; because it’s obvious Malva is the one who commands Lily to perform these procedures with her, and she always ends up following her like a dog. But, it’s not like Malva has held her gun up to Lily and said “Do this or else.” Something about the way Malva holds command in the room makes Lily fall in line, not out of fear or respect, but something that I can’t quite put my finger on.

My only interactions with Malva are when she’s knocking me unconscious and waking me up in the testing room to perform what she calls “tests”; that’s just her creative way of saying torture.

The testing room…even thinking about it pulls tears out of my eyes. Don’t get me wrong, it’s scary when I find myself in this cell, those halls, or even the operating table; but the testing room is the space that holds a horror beyond what any of those rooms aspire to create. There have been countless times when I have woken up in that damned room strapped down to a chair. A tester being placed on my ear is the least painful part of the procedure, as the model is no different than a regular hearing aid. What’s worse is receiving no warning and feeling a needle pierce the flesh above my spine, diving deep enough to the point you expect it to scratch the bone itself. I almost always find myself frozen in that chair, as movement causes the needle to move between my vertebrae and the nerves around it to fire. Most of the time it’s not only one needle; usually, there would be at least three or five stabbed along my back. They crookedly align all the way up to the nape of my neck. Those needles connect to cables stretched along the floor or hung up on the walls, finally ending their connection to different monitors and other odd devices.

Lily said before that the tests shouldn’t hurt, but that’s only if it doesn't go wrong. Sometimes they’d run a test and the needles would shoot an electric pulse along my spine. My body crumples in agony as the shock traverses up my spine and throughout my nervous system, leaving me heaving for air. I’m grateful to have at least somewhat of a warning due to the misplaced memories. Moments before the shocks, a jarring urge rampages through my body, forcing me to brace—an invisible siren before a disaster.

There was only one test where the warnings could only do so much. The test started as usual, and I had hoped for it to have as few shocks as possible. Ten minutes in I braced as that first wave of excruciating electrocutions pierced their way through my nervous system. Malva came over to disconnect and reconnect wires to different needles. When she started the test again the shocks ran down my spine with an intensity that I had never felt before. Within a matter of seconds, my lungs were deprived of air as every fiber in my muscles convulsed with the current that ran through them. I was lightheaded to the point that I had to smell my skin burn before realizing what was happening. The needles scorched my skin with a heat wave that shocked my nerves to the point where they ran cold. I didn’t recognize the screeches that shot out of my mouth to be my own.

My heart sank at the realization of how bad this test had gone when I noticed Malva’s expression jolted out of deep thought only to dive into terror. I didn’t even realize Lily ran behind me until she ripped the needles out of my back, feeling the metal sear the underside of my flesh as they tugged on my skin. The tester was ripped off, and Lily flung me out of the chair. When I looked back, the tester’s earpiece had exploded into a small bonfire that Malva was trying to stomp out before Lily ran and got a nearby fire extinguisher. The needles glowed vibrant red and buzzed with an electrical hum as the blood around them boiled to the point it turned black. I think if it weren’t for Lily, Malva would have melted my skin around all of their equipment.

The cruelest part about those tests is that the cable-covered room will never kill me. For as long as I’m here they will continue to burn and electrocute me till I’m on the brink of death, but I’ll never get that relief.

Every waking moment is wasted on pondering when Malva will come back for me, which is unfortunately something I can’t predict. She doesn’t have a schedule for testing; instead, I think she finds pleasure in busting into my cell on impulse and jamming me into that room. Sometimes, she’ll skip the formality of giving me a warning and wake me up only to knock me out again. At a later hour, I’ll wake up to the blinking bulb in my cell turning on to find scars and the aftermath of twisted operations; usually, they can be found down my spine or on the back of my neck.

As of now, I’m lucky to say I’ve had no more surgical operations besides the initial four they performed when I arrived: one on my head, one on my neck, and two on my middle and lower back. Till now I’m not sure what they’ve placed under my skin; but whenever I lay down on my back, the small bumps under the scars press against my spine as though I am lying on a small object.

It’s no surprise that I prefer Lily over Malva any day. Lily sometimes trims my hair with some old rusty scissors to make me look somewhat more humane. I don’t know what curl pattern hides under her locs, but obviously, it’s nowhere near my consistency. She tends to soak my hair in tap water to make the knots somewhat easier to rip though, but it doesn’t hold the water for too long. Eventually, I end up with a frizzy mess by the time she decides to snip away at it. When I get tossed back into my cell and rinse it with the coldest water I have, it falls into heavy and uneven layers. The curls on the botched top layer shrink down into tiny little tubes, while the ones below stretch to meet my chin. It’s better than leaving it unmaintained, but sometimes I wish she didn’t touch it at all.

While she brutally beats my roots into a pulp, Lily tries to have conversations with me. She can go on for hours and never notices that I’m barely listening.

Not that there’s much to talk about between us. After all, Lily still helps Malva put me through hell, so I wouldn’t consider her a friend. Something about her rubs me the wrong way. It’s not that she’s given me any reason not to trust her, if anything, she should be the most trustable person I’ve met here. Something about these distorted memories makes me want to trust her like an old friend of mine, but I just can’t seem to pull myself to feel safe in her presence. If she’s anything to me, she’s the one person who doesn’t want to kill me. Nothing more. Nothing less.

In most of the conversations she’s talking, and I’m rarely signing. I’ve never really been able to use my voice, even when I was younger. The disconnect from my brain to my mouth has always been there. Verbal Apraxia is what the doctors call it, and is the reason why I learned to sign. It’s a way to finally communicate with the world around me. As a child, I went to speech therapy and learned how to form sentences for everyday things, but it doesn’t make sense to contort the wires in my head for the people here. The most they’ve ever heard from me was maybe a “stop!” or a “help!”; but other than that these people will never hear a clear sentence from me.

Most of Lily’s conversation topics are typically about small things, like the kind of coffee roasts she enjoys, the rats that run around the facility, or her fiancé. I don’t remember most of it, as I blank out whenever Lily or Malva comes near me. Something about them makes my brain go on autopilot: a daydream but no thoughts. Everything goes numb for a couple of hours, maybe days, and I can’t control when I come back to my senses.

It’s nice that Lily and I at least have some form of communication. Unlike her, Malva doesn’t understand sign language at all. Either that or she’s just ignoring my begs for mercy as she stabs me with more equipment.

I’ve never understood why Lily was kind to me or why she treats any of the kidnappees here with empathy. Maybe she’s delusional about what’s going on in this facility. To me, it doesn’t matter why. I just appreciate that she does; or, so she used to. Slowly she began to talk less and less as her energy began to slip away along with her cheer. Eventually, she stopped showing up altogether. I don’t know if that means she’s been too busy to come into my cell or maybe she finally had the nerve to run off somewhere else. At the same time, I wouldn’t be surprised if Malva ended up snapping, killed her, and dumped her in a ditch. She’s already a crazy bitch with a child’s temper, so that wouldn’t be too much of a surprise.

I will admit, sometimes I do miss her. But, the one cool spot in this hell, the one person who had mercy, is now gone. Gone forever? Not sure. I’m not going to stretch my neck out to find her; she doesn’t mean that much to me. Sometimes I look back at the day we met and laugh at the irony that it was my first and last attempt at leaving this place.

It was a couple of nights after my initial arrival when I met Dr. Lilywise. That was the full name she told me when she came into my cell and sat down in front of the door. Lily struggled to cross her legs as they cracked while being pulled into place. I still remember the soft smile she gave me that day. Her motherly eyes looked tired from overworking herself nearly to death, and her round face lightly pulled into a smile as she beamed with exhausted joy. Her locs hadn’t been taken care of, but she tried to fix it by making a bun with a large clip. The short locs that created bangs now hung too low, so she pushed them into a middle part. They laid flat just below her eyebrows, falling over her thick round glasses held up by a short, bridged nose.

She wore a long-fitted lab coat, kept open to reveal her lime green turtleneck with the lab’s symbol: a circle with three interconnected smaller circles inside. Her jeans were just slightly too big for her thin legs. They were on the brink of being malnourished, but I also believe that’s just her natural body shape.

I squeezed myself into the corner of the cell on the opposite side hoping to keep my distance from her. She didn’t get any closer to me. For some reason, Lily just stayed on the other side of the room; instead, I watched as she took out a notepad, a pen, and a digital audio recorder. She clicked the record button and laid it on the floor, then proceeded to ask me, “What’s your name?” in a posh British accent. I was too scared to answer, especially since I only had a vague idea of where I was. After a long, empty moment of silence, she asked, “How old are you?” Another long moment of silence passed, as I had no intent on giving this woman any information. I guess she figured out I’m not talkative, so she pulled herself up and left the cell, leaving behind her belongings.

I stared at her pen and began to wonder how I could use this false window of opportunity, as the idea of getting out still seemed appropriate at the time. The gears in my brain turned, trying to figure out how I could use these items to aid my escape. A weapon? No. A tool? Possibly, but I didn’t know how to pick a lock. Then, I had the sudden thought: What if there was the possibility that I could open the door from the outside? I knew what I had to do.

I grabbed the pen and began to viciously smash at the door’s window. Each swing was harder than the last. I tried every corner of that damn window, but it was no use. As I wrapped both of my hands around the pen and pounded at the center with my full strength, I asked myself “Why isn’t this breaking”? I’m unsure if it was just adrenaline or if my heart was breaking, but the distress that ran through me called for me to keep hitting the glass. Tears of desperation began to stream down my face as I fell into a sob. “Please, just let me go!” I internally screamed. Dropping the pen, my hands curled into knuckles to beat away at the strong glass, slowly ripping apart my skin with each hit.

Under the film of my blood a minuscule chip in the thick glass. Falling to my knees, my bloody fists reached out and locked onto the pen on the floor. “There’s no way I’m trapped here,” I told myself to justify another attempt to break the window.

I jumped up to go for a second round, only to meet Lily’s eyes on the other side of the glass. Terror ran through my body as I retreated back to the safety of the corner. I found myself locking the pen between my fingers as though it were a knife, ready to fight back if she had tried anything. She knew I was trying to escape. I thought for sure that would warrant a reason to kill me. That’s what usually happens to kidnappees, at least what I’ve seen in action movies. The sound of a key sliding into the door unlocked a fear in me that I didn’t want to come to terms with. That fear of death.

Lily lightly opened it with her foot, carrying two hot mugs.

She looked at me, looked at the window, and back at me. “What…happened here?” she asked me. Not knowing if she had come back to punish me for what I had done made the tremble in my arms become much more apparent. Her eyes glided to the brandished pen. “Oh, you used the pen to try to break the glass. That was smart, but I don’t believe you can damage this window with a pen,” she giggled.

She put the two mugs down and began to walk closer to me. I aimed the pen at her, brandishing the only weapon I had as a warning, though I was unsure if I was even willing to use it as such. My body pressed into the wall until my shoulders folded inward to fit its shape.

Then, in an unusual turn of events, she said in a gentle voice, “I’m not mad. I just want my pen back, ok?” She lightly grabbed the pen with her thumb and index finger and began to pull it away from me. Her calming look of concern caused a refreshing sense of ease to flow through me, as this small pocket of time between horrific events became a moment to breathe. I gently let go of the pen.

“My dear, you’re bleeding!” she gasped. Lily immediately dropped the pen and quickly reached into her pocket to take out a gauze ball. Her hands cradled mine as she began to wrap my knuckles, adding just the right amount of pressure that would stop them from moving but not enough to cause any pain. “We wouldn’t want you to get an infection, now would we?” Lily joked, “Thank goodness I’m always prepared for a disaster.”

After covering my wounds, she quickly picked up the pen from the floor, stowed it away in her pocket, and made her way back to the other side of the room.

“I know you’re not quite comfortable just yet, but I brought you a cup of coffee if you would like. You don’t necessarily need to take it right now, but it’s here whenever you feel as such.”

I’m not a fan of coffee, especially if it’s just black. Too bitter for my taste. If she had offered me tea, I maybe would have taken it.

Another long moment of silence passed as Lily sipped away at her coffee. An odd tension hung in the air between us. Awkward isn’t quite the right word for it, but neither is threatening. It felt as though she had reached out a hand to me, offering a brief sanctuary in this morbid space, and was waiting for me to respond. I grabbed the mug, and even though I had no intention of drinking it, I let its warmth smooth my aching hands.

Eventually, she put the mug down and asked again, “I just need a name. That’s all I am asking for.”

I knew that the best chance at survival was to follow what she told me to do. Or what anybody told me to do. Obedience was my one-way ticket to life.

I began to sign “J-A-D-A.” Lily gasped, picking up her notebook from the floor and taking out her pen.

“Could you do that again?”

Once again, I signed “J-A-D-A.” She quickly wrote it down, reading it over in her mind trying to process it.

“Jah-dah?” she slowly pronounced.

I shook my head no, spelling out “H-A-D-A-H”.

“Oh! Hah-dah!” Lily pronounces, “Correct?”

I nodded my head in agreement. “Jada. What a lovely name.” She picked up her items, stopped the recording, and said, “Well, it was lovely meeting you, Jada.” She took a long sip from her coffee, “My name is Dr. Lilywise, but you can call me Lily.” Her small hand put down the mug and signed “L-I-L-Y.”

“L-I-L-Y,” I sign back. “Sign name?” I question.

“Dear, I don’t believe I have one.”

Her glasses are the most memorable part of her face, especially how thick they are. I put my hand in the shape of an L and put it up to my eye, making her giggle.

“Is that my sign name?” she blushes. I nod my head yes. At a volume too loud for the packed room, she asked, “Are you deaf?” while signing it simultaneously. I once again shook my head no. After an awkward minute of silence, she left the cell, leaving behind the singular mug. Lily locked the door behind her and disappeared into the everlasting facility.

That sense of security was ripped away from me moments later when Malva came in and knocked me out to bring me to my first procedure. Maybe the “JA” in my tattoo came from Lily getting my name.

Lily was the only doctor I got to know on a personal level, as she was the one who didn’t treat me like a wild animal. Even though I never really listened or paid attention to what she was saying, it gave me a sense of security knowing someone here had a glimmer of empathy for me, even if it was something as minor as trying to start a conversation. If it weren’t for my own inability to trust, I think we could have been good friends in another life.

I’m not sure why I remember this today, but it’s one of the more pleasant memories I have of this place. As I continue my morning stretches, an intense burning sensation in my hand forces me to recoil.

“What the hell?” I think to myself. There is an even more revolting burn on my hand underneath the messily done and grotesque tattoo, leaving a nasty scar in the shape of a “J.” The welts have healed a bit with hours of on-and-off sleep, but the pain is fresh in my mind. The tight skin begins to boil, burn, and pop as if it were being brandished all over again. Tears build up on the edge of my eyes as I stare more in-depth into the red and pink ditch. The places where I bled have healed, leaving two small, dried blood patches. Other areas still had a clear gloss, just beginning to cover the open skin. What happened?

Wait, I remember. I wish I didn’t, but last night’s recollection washes over me with a wave of realization that sinks my heart into the floor.

It was the usual tossing and turning as I watched the security camera’s red light in the corner of the room blink on and off, briefly illuminating the cell. It’s pretty standard for me not to fall asleep, as it’s hard to stay asleep when you don’t know if it’s another night where you’ll be ripped out from under your sheets. I’ve heard it happen before to other people in cells around me. They fall asleep and let their guard down. The next thing they know, they wake up while being dragged down the hall. Their screams and cries for help pass by my cell, then slowly fade into the hall. I don’t know exactly why they get pulled out most of the time, but it’s a petrifying fear of mine that I’ll be next.

On the nights when I can’t sleep, I pace around the stuffy cell until I get tired or pass out from the sweltering heat. Then, there is the odd occasion when Lily would be so kind as to slip a sleeping pill for me. I never questioned what she was giving me. All I knew was that it knocked me unconscious in a matter of minutes, and that’s all I wanted.

Last night was the same drill as usual. I couldn’t sleep, and it was one of those unlucky nights where the small vent over the sink would not blow the pitiful gusts of wind that kept my cell from turning into a concrete oven to broil me alive. I’m guessing it was about midnight when all of this happened, as the light had gone out just a couple of hours before. Once they go out, the hall's light is the only illumination I have, making a rectangle of light against my bed's wall. It was pretty late when I heard the hall’s heavy door open with a piercing screech. Shoes clicked down the empty hall with a haunting echo that harmonized with the rumble of a cart. I stopped pacing and quickly jumped into the bed, not daring to look at the door.

Click, Click, click…

A puddle of sweat began to build up underneath me. Was it from the heat or fear? I honestly don’t know.

Click, click, click…

The sound of that small one-inch heel was distinctive. In the quiet night, it was a siren. A warning that someone was about to get screwed over.

“Please don’t be me. Please don’t be me,” I internally begged to myself in the dark. It stopped right in front of my cell door. I realized I was the victim that night.

I tensed up within the paper-thin sheets, leaning against the flaming wall to give myself a bit of space between me and the door. My mind tried to gaslight me into having some false hope, telling myself that Lily could be trying to bring me another sleeping pill. But then again, she always wore the same deteriorating sneakers every day. There is no way she would be walking down these halls in those shoes. Only Malva does that.

A key slipped into the slot and the door grated across the floor as it opened. My heart jumped to my throat, forcing my breathing to stop in anticipation of what was to come. The silence that followed was broken by an eerie voice.

“I know you’re awake.” Malva’s voice echoed through the cell. A shiver slid down my back, causing me to twitch and let go of the breath that was being held in. I tried to slow my breathing to not alarm her with the sound of hyperventilation, but each breath was released with an audible tremble at the edge of tears. Every part of my body shuddered violently as my pulse pounded like a drum in my ear.

“Jada.”

That monster saying my name sent more shivers crawling down my spine, only to settle like a rock in my stomach. “Look at me,” she demanded.

I peeked over my shoulder through the dark to see the outline of Dr. Malva’s pear-shaped body. Her long lab coat that wrapped loosely around her hips was in desperate need of a wash, as blotches of old bloodstains still remained. Some of those maroon patches are probably my own blood that she had spilled through her tests, which she now wears on her collection of stains as just another leftover. The lime-colored T-shirt with the lab’s symbol had fewer stains than the coat but still reeked of sweat. It’s obvious her loose jeans used to have more color to them, and the fabric is slowly deteriorating. She stood beside a rolling cart with a small fire on it. Old lab papers doused in gasoline were set ablaze, and a gold chain was hanging off to the side with its charm engulfed in flames. The bonfire’s weak light illuminated her, and she became a demon in the hellish glow. Specs of her bleach blond pixie cut shined from the dim orange flame, the black roots fading into the darkness. The light was a catalyst to the faint blemishes on her umber brown skin; her long lashes became flames in the dark room, and the bags under her eyes appeared more prominent than ever. The bridge of her long nose shined brightly between her two lively brown eyes. Tonight, she held herself with pride, her horrific long grin reaching from ear to ear. Her smile. Why? Why the smile that night? She rarely ever smiles. I’ve only seen her smile when something goes excellent for her, which is always terrible news for me. I turned my head back, unwilling to see what terror she had for me now.

The metal door screamed, dragging itself on the floor as she slammed it shut behind her. The high-pitched screech of the rusty wheels on the cart began to come closer to the bed as her heels once again started their haunting tune.

Click...click...click.

“Lily thinks she can just run away from this,” she said to herself in the dark.

As the screams of the cart’s wheels came closer, the crackle of the fire became explosions as the papers were tossed around by the rough ride. The sound burned into my brain.

Click...click...click...pop...pop...pop.

“Coward,” she said with a hint of laughter growing between her words, “That’s right. She’s just a coward! Just…a coward. Yeah…yeah.”

I covered my ears, putting enough pressure on my head to make it feel like my skull was going to crack at any moment; but I couldn’t loosen the lock I had set on myself. It wasn’t enough to block the sound of the cart’s screams, so my arms wouldn’t give up until it was gone.

Pressure. Pressure. Just don’t listen.

Click...click...click...pop...pop...pop.

“I can’t let that happen. No, no, no she will get just as much credit as I do. It’s only fair! I’ll make sure of it,” Malva promised to herself.

Soon the cart’s agonized shrieks died down, and the tiny heels ceased their tune of terror right next to my bed. My eyes burned with the threat of tears.

“Give me your hand,” Malva demanded in a low, sinister voice. The presence of her hand next to me was another push to get me to follow her command. I curled up in the thin sheets, trying to sink deeper into the stone bed, not as a form of rebellion; but as an instinctual attempt to distance myself away from her. Malva’s hand slipped away like a snake chasing the sound of fire in the night.

“Jada...” Malva commands. “Don’t make this difficult.” The fire cracked to life as she pulled the necklace out of the flames; the chains harmonized in rhythm with her movement. “Lily said I needed to be more gentle. Have more patience with you. But I don’t need her to tell me what to do with you.”

In one swift motion, her hand shot out and grabbed me by the wrist, swinging me across the bed. My vision met dark brown eyes inches away from my face. Her long teeth glared in the glow of the fire, and her mouth stretched into a smile to match the pure insanity that must broil in her mind. In one hand, she held my wrist, squeezing it as though she was trying to pop it like a pimple; and in the other, her gloved hand held a long necklace. I could barely make out a J in the blinding yellows and oranges of the heated gold as it glowed like a sun in the dark cell. The tears that had built up poured down my face, but the heat dried them up almost immediately. Every thought in my mind begged for me to scream, but it wouldn’t be of any use. I knew no one was going to hear me because no one was coming for me. She slammed my hand against the bed frame and tightened her grip on the charm.

The cart’s fire cracked to life as Malva forced her flaming ornament into the back of my hand. That stench coming from the gasoline-fueled fire was tainted with the vile reek of blood and flesh broiling. My hand’s tendons stretched to the best of their ability to get away, causing my palm to cramp as each finger pulled in a different direction. The bone beneath my knuckles’ flesh made a piercing white appearance as they too tried to tear away. I never knew that the sound of skin being seared was so distinct, but I could barely hear it over my own scream. Panic overwhelmed all corners of my brain as more tears began to stream down my face.

I don't want to remember anymore. Please, no, I don’t want to remember. I don’t need to remember. Please stop remembering the screech of that cart’s wheels. Please stop remembering the smell of my skin being brandished. Stop listening. Stop smelling. Stop. Stop!

Boom!

A nearby door snaps me out of last night’s nightmare and back into the reality that I’m still sitting on the sweat-damp bed, looking down at the scar of the golden “J” on my hand. These daydreams of remembrance feel like hours but are probably only a couple of minutes. That smile on Malva's face is burned into my vision. I’m conflicted on which one hurts more to think about: the brandishing or the smile she had while doing so. They both hold my sanity hostage, but I don’t know how much is left. With a deep breath, I lay back down on the bed.

It doesn't matter why I’m here or how I got here at the end of the day. This has been my reality for too damn long, and it probably will be for whatever’s left of my life. Whether my death is today, tomorrow, or next year, I don’t care anymore. I’m convinced this is my grave.

With a deep sigh, I gather the strength to push myself out of bed. Looking into the leftovers of a broken-down mirror over the sink, I don't see myself. There's a lady who stands over the sink. Her hair was buzzed down by a third party, desperately trying to grow back as it splits into different directions with barely any pattern whatsoever. It’s not nearly as curly as her dad’s tight coils but not as loose as her mom’s spirals. It falls right in between, creating large frizzy curls. She wishes she could have treated it better to make it soft and bouncy like it used to be, but months of not maintaining it caused it to dry up and create split ends.

Her eyes are sunken in from many restless nights and violent awakenings. A red haze surrounded her dark eyes, and deep purple bags created a puff under her short lashes. Her body is aching and starving for a good shower, but she’s able to maintain a bit of hygiene with the one sink and whatever water may come out of it. Is it really considered cleaning anymore when the one bar of soap runs out?

The ten pounds she has lost is apparent on her face, as her already prominent cheeks stick out more than ever. Her previously sepia-brown skin is now amber from a lack of nutrients. She’s been avoiding death by starvation with the pieces of canned food or bread she would be lucky to get every couple of days. The water she drank was probably contaminated with something, but it was a luxury if she got any. Her broad nose is red from the number of times she’s rubbed it after getting allergies from the dust.

The woman in the mirror wears the same tank top she’s had since the beginning. Sadly, she had taken off her blouse and shoes to cool down, only to never see them again after leaving them on the floor for a couple of days. Her jeans were ripped down with her bare hands to create shorts. Now looking at what she wears to survive the sweltering heat, it’s more obvious than ever that I don’t recognize myself in the mirror. The woman who looks back at me died long before now. This body is my own, but it no longer feels like me.

I look down at the sink and begin to run my hand under the cool water, only to cause the pinching, burning sensation to worsen. A quick whimper of pain escapes my mouth as I suck air in between my teeth. The pain sends me stepping backward while squeezing my wrist until I sit on the bed. I lay back down, waiting for the pain to stop. It’s an exercise that’s not too uncommon for me but never gets easier. My head begins to spin once again. It buzzes with a paralyzing fear. My heart races, telling me that danger is approaching. My mind screams at me to run, hide, do something. I know in reality that there’s nothing there; Malva’s heels are no longer approaching my cell to burn me or drag me into the testing room. Not even Lily’s flat sneakers are flopping their way across the hall. Even if something was heading my way, there was nothing I could do. There’s nothing to do.

Every fiber of my being aches for me to run, get away from it. There’s not even an “it” to get away from yet. My mind screams at me to do something, be scared. Every muscle in my body is sore from being tense all day, ready to jump at any given threat. Not like I would, I’m not a knight prepared to fight for my life. This cycle of terror in my mind is constant and drains me of whatever energy I have left.

My stomach no longer craves food, as I’ve adjusted to the new normal of just barely keeping it not empty. It likes to reject the canned slob that Malva throws at me to binge. I try to hold it down to the best of my ability, but sometimes I fail

I just want it to stop. I don’t even want to get out of here anymore. I just want this buzzing in my head to stop. The migraines I get from their tests and sleepless nights are excruciating. That sinking feeling of hopelessness I fall into each morning when I realize I’m still not dead is exhausting. I’m honestly just waiting for the day that a test goes wrong enough and…I just need to stop thinking.

A key slips into the door’s slot, and I sit on the bed. I got so lost in my daydream that I didn’t even hear someone heading to my cell. There’s nothing I can do except await whatever is behind that door. It opens with a screech, and behind it stands Malva. She’s lost the grin from last night and has returned to her tired look of annoyance. The lights being on makes her a little less threatening. By that, I mean she looks less like she wants to hurt me and more like she just wants to run her tests.

After a few seconds of silence, she stares down at my scarred hand and sighs in disappointment. "Does it hurt?" she says with irritation. I, too, look down at the bright pink “J” on the hand and nod, feeling my tired mushy brain jiggle inside my skull. It pounds against the back of my head, the pulsating sound comes out of my ears. She takes out a zip tie and walks towards me, grabbing my hands and tying them together. "You may be a pain in the ass, but I do need to keep you alive. I can’t let you get an infection." She scoffs and puts her face closer to it. "Did you put water on it?!" She looks up at me with anger plastered on her face.

She then goes to the door, turns around, and says, "Come on..."

And so the day starts.