Amy

The house of whispers

The House of Whispers became a labyrinth of shadows and secrets, each room a stage for a different kind of violation. My body, once a vessel of innocence, became a battleground, a canvas upon which they painted their cruel desires. The pain, both physical and emotional, was a constant companion, a relentless tormentor that gnawed at my soul.

Madame Evangeline, her eyes like chips of ice, watched me with a cold, calculating gaze, assessing my value, my compliance. She spoke of "clients," of "pleasing them," of "obeying their every whim." Her words were like barbed wire, entangling me in a web of fear and submission.

The nights blurred into a haze of terror and degradation. Each encounter left me feeling more broken, more empty, more and st. I became a shell, a hollow echo of the girl I once was. The doll with broken eyes, Hope, seemed to mock me with her silent stare, a reminder of the innocence I had lost.

One night, a "client," a man with a bloated face and eyes like a cornered animal, offered me a small, white pill. "It'll take the edge off," he slurred, his words thick with liquor and something else, something acrid and foul. I hesitated, the pill a foreign object in my trembling palm. I had seen others in the house take them, watch, and them slip into a state of hazy oblivion. But I had always resisted, clinging to the last vestiges of control.

But the memory of his touch, the lingering shame, the unbearable weight of my own existence, was a burden too heavy to bear. I swallowed the pill, and within minutes, the world began to soften, the sharp edges of my pain blurring into a dull ache. The room seemed to recede, the man's face fading into a hazy blur. For the first time since arriving, I felt… nothing. It was a temporary reprieve, a fragile illusion, but in that moment, it was all I had.