Mishele P O V
Caged Silence
The floor was damp beneath my knees, the stench of sweat, smoke, and unwashed bodies clinging to the stale air. My arms throbbed from where I’d tried to shield myself—again.
They came in shifts.
Not the guards.
The other girls.
They were hungrier than I was.
Desperate. Addicted. Angry.
And when the man with the keys offered a half-eaten meal or a cigarette through the bars, it was always followed by one demand:
“Rough her up. Make it convincing.”
And they did.
Every time.
At first, I screamed. I cried. I begged.
Now, I just curled into myself and waited for it to end.
There was no moon down here.
No light. No time. Just the ache of bruises and the rattle of the cages when another girl lunged at mine.
I’d lost track of how long I’d been here.
Day
