Kian
At first, I thought it was a joke. My uncle wouldn’t be that cruel to subject me to such torture and even if he were cruel—certainly not to me. Even when I was whipped before him, I believed that he only wanted to instill fear in me so that I would cave in and sign the divorce papers as fast as possible.
That was the belief I held onto, until minutes turned into hours, and hours turned into days, and days into a week. And with every growing torture and with my uncle not returning, it slowly hit me that this wasn’t child’s play and it wouldn’t cost him a thing to get rid of me here.
I sucked in a deep breath, grip tightening around the arm of the wheelchair as the memories from that dark room flooded my brain. I was sure that I had PTSD now—something that I would never heal from.
