Amy

Hell

The smells were the first assault on my senses, a visceral reminder of the world outside my sanctuary: stale cigarettes, acrid and clinging, curling into my lungs like a thick fog that choked; cheap, cloying perfume, a sickly sweet mask that masked deeper rot; and the underlying scent of sweat and fear, a primal odor that wrapped around the very fabric of the room. Each inhalation felt like a betrayal, dragging me back into a reality I loathed. I remember the rough, calloused hands grasping too tightly, their grip reminiscent of iron, the heavy, labored breathing echoing like a nightmare. I was entrapped in a dizzying kaleidoscope of terror, where the world tilted and spun, leaving me gasping for breath, desperate for clarity.

Not the pain, not at first. Pain became a constant companion, an unwelcome shadow settling into the marrow of my bones. It throbbed dulled and steady, a reminder of my existence, yet it was the wrongness of it all that truly cut deep—the violation of my spirit, the sense of being utterly and completely powerless. It felt like being forced to wear someone else’s skin, a grim, constricting garment that was too tight, too hot, a suffocating shroud that stifled the very essence of who I was. In those moments, I felt the walls closing in, the weight of my reality pressing down, suffocating any remnants of the freedom I had fleetingly glimpsed.