Cherry.
The walls never change. White, clinical, and close enough to feel like they’re pressing inward, inch by inch, each day. I stopped counting days weeks ago, maybe months. Time in here doesn’t pass; it corrodes.
The sheets haven’t been changed. Sour with sweat, crusted with old defeat. My skin has learned to cling to them. I twist, and the leather at my wrists and ankles answers with a fresh, hot bite into skin already worn thin.
Bedsores bloom along my back, angry and constant. Needle marks lace my arms and thighs, little burned moons, proof of where Davison made me his experiment, his vessel.
Some days I don’t recognize the woman I’ve become.
The Shadow comes without fail. Always silent, her face a smudge in the dim light, hands steady as she carries the tray. She doesn’t speak
