Mors

Chapter 19

The silence filling the room seemed to grow teeth.

For seven straight days, the four walls of the suite became my entire universe. A week of absolute, suffocating isolation. I was kept locked inside like a shameful secret or a prize specimen, completely cut off from the rest of the world. My only human interaction came in the form of a rotating shift of mute, phantom-like maids who entered three times a day to attend to my basic survival needs.

The routine never varied. The door would click, the lock turning with that sharp, metallic snap that had become the soundtrack to my descent into madness. A maid would slip inside, her eyes fixed firmly on the carpet, refusing to acknowledge my existence. With practiced, eerie efficiency, they would refresh the room - changing the sheets I barely slept in, replacing the plush towels in the pristine bathroom, and setting down a silver tray loaded with gourmet meals that smelled like ash in my mouth. Then, they would leave, the door shutting behind them, and the lock would slide back into place.

Click.

Back in the cage.

I didn’t wash the pastor’s dried blood off my skin for the first two days. It felt like a grim armor, a physical reminder that the nightmare in the church had actually happened, that I hadn't just hallucinated the whole thing. But by the third day, the stench of copper and my own sweat became too much, and I scrubbed myself raw under the scalding water of the shower. Yet, no matter how much soap I used, the phantom weight of Augustino’s hand fisted in my hair never truly left my scalp.

Without a phone, a book, a television, or a single window that opened more than a cracked inch for fresh air, I was left entirely alone with the one thing I couldn't outrun: my own mind.

And a free mind, untethered from reality, never brings any good thoughts.

By the fifth day, my inner monologue had turned into a toxic, swirling vortex. The silence became a magnifying glass, turning every dark memory, every regret, and every terrifying variable of my future into a monstrous caricature. I paced the perimeter of the room, counting the steps. Twelve paces from the bed to the bathroom. Fourteen from the wardrobe to the door. Over and over and over.

Why did my body respond to him? The question clawed at the inside of my skull until I wanted to scream. It was a rhythmic, agonizing chant that played on a loop. You’re a hypocrite, Everly. You claim to hate him, you claim he’s a monster, but your own traitorous flesh bowed to his touch. Maybe you belong in this hellhole. Maybe you’re just as rotten as the rest of them.

The image of the pastor’s twitching crotch and his hollow, dead eyes flashed behind my eyelids every time I tried to sleep. The holy place had turned into a slaughterhouse, and I was the sacrificial lamb who had somehow survived but lost her soul in the process. I started to look at the heavy silver rosary Augustino had slung around my neck. It sat on the nightstand, gleaming mockingly under the chandelier. A price tag. That’s all it was. The cost of my dignity, paid in full by a devil who didn't even believe in God.

By the seventh day, the depression gave way to something far more dangerous: a quiet, unhinged desperation. Darker thoughts began to take root in the shadows of my mind. I found myself staring at the heavy glass vase on the dresser. If I break it, will the shards be sharp enough? If I cut deep enough, will I be free?

The realization that I was actively plotting my own destruction terrified me, but the terror was numb. The room was eating me alive. It was erasing me piece by piece, turning me into a hollow shell, precisely as Augustino had promised. If I stayed in this silence for another week, there wouldn't be an Everly left to train. There would only be a ghost.

On the ninth day, the snapping point arrived.

The air in the room felt thick, heavy, and starved of oxygen. My chest was tight, my heart drumming a frantic, erratic rhythm against my ribs. The walls felt like they were actively closing in, the charcoal paint suffocating me, the gold accents mocking my captivity. I was losing my mind. Truly, completely losing it. The terrifying certainty that I would shatter into a million unfixable pieces if I had to spend another single second in this quiet trap gripped me by the throat.

When the lock clicked at noon, my entire body jolted. The door swung open, and an older maid walked in, carrying the standard silver lunch tray.

I didn't let her step away this time. I scrambled off the bed, my bare feet hitting the hardwood floor with a sharp slap. My heart was lodged in my throat, choking my breathing, as I stepped directly into her path, cutting off her exit.

"Please," I gasped, my voice sounding ragged, thin, and wild from days of disuse. I didn't care how pathetic I sounded. I didn't care about my pride anymore. I just needed to break the silence. "Please... can I meet your boss? I need to see him. I need to talk to him."

The maid stopped. For the first time in nine days, one of them actually lifted their gaze to look at me. Her expression wasn't cruel; it was just entirely blank, frozen in a state of rigid, professional detachment. She didn't look at my bloodshot eyes or the desperate, trembling posture of a woman on the verge of a psychological collapse.

She calmly walked past me, placed the silver tray down on the desk with a soft, metallic thud, and turned back toward the door.

"The Capo is out," she informed me. Her tone was completely flat, monotone, and devoid of any human inflection.

That was it. That was all the information I got.

Before I could even open my mouth to beg for more, to ask when he’d be back, or where he went, she slipped out of the room with the grace of a shadow. The heavy mahogany door shut firmly in my face, and the lock turned.

Click.

The sound vibrated through the wood and straight into my bones.

"No," I whispered, pressing my palms against the cold wood. "No, no, no!"

I slammed my fist against the door, but the door didn't even vibrate. It was like shouting into a void. He was out. He wasn't even here. While I was in this room, pacing like a caged animal, slowly pulling my own brain apart strand by strand, Augustino was out in the real world, living his life, running his empire, completely unbothered by the psychological execution he was performing on me.

He didn't need to be in the room to torture me. The isolation was doing the work for him, a slow-acting poison that was turning my own thoughts into his weapons.

I slid down the front of the door until my knees hit the floor, burying my face in my hands. The silence rushed back in, louder and heavier than before, filling my ears with a deafening roar. He had completely erased my existence, and I was left with nothing but the terrifying realization that the woman’s words from my first night were entirely true.

If I wanted to survive this, if I wanted to keep my sanity from fracturing entirely, I couldn't just sit here and let the shadows consume me. I had to become a disgusting human being. I had to learn to play his game, because the alternative was letting this room bury me alive.

~•~