Nightmare

I think what eventually woke me was the stench, it assaulted my nose and I gagged in reflex. The second thing was the blinding pain. Opening my eyes only made the pain worse so I kept them squeezed shut. I groaned and I attempted to move only to find my hands were bound in front of me at my wrists. Surprised, my eyes flew open. The lights pounded at them causing the pain in my head to double. This time I did heave, there was nothing to come up, but I continued to gag and shutter with the motions until my body gave up its fight to empty my already empty stomach. Trembling, I sat up and blearily opened my eyes while I wiped my mouth on my arm. I could not feel my hands, as they seemed to have lost feeling from how tight the ropes were. But it was at this point that I could examine my hand. My fingers oozed and were cracked with dried blood, and some fresh. I choked back a sob at first, and then let them freely come. Drawing my knees up to my chest, I choked and gasped until I could barely breathe. I was going to die. No, I wanted to die. Let death come take me.
“Oy, the little murderess is awake, lookie ‘ere.” I raised my head slowly and looked up through swollen eyes at the man in front of me.
Another man joined him, but I could not see their faces as the light was behind them, and their faces cast in shadows, “I don’t know why you’re crying. You’re the one who killed ol’ Martuf.”
A jolt went through me and I remembered. Sobbing, I crawled forward, protecting my cut hand, attempting to get my feet under me, “No, please, no…” I begged, “I was only defending myself!”
The guard snorted in derision, “That’s not the way Othelia tells it.”
“Please, no, you have to believe me…!” I was at the bars now of this tiny, dirty prison, gripping them with my good hand.
He kicked at the bars, making me fall backwards in an attempt to save my hand, “We saw you, you whore. Bare chested, with yer skirts around your waist. You were gonna go after that sweet little inn keeper too.”
“The man…” I was up on my knees again, the thin shift I wore was not adequate protection on my knees, “Please, there was a nobleman there, he can speak for me…”
“There was no one in the inn when we found you, not even a noble. What a lie! A noble in that rank hole!” The larger guard interrupted and barked a laugh.
The shorter guard spit into my cell, “Murderess. You don’t deserve to live.”
“We might have a little fun before she goes to the gallows yet, eh?” The other man chuckled.
I shrank back, pressing myself into the cold, damp wall of the cell. What could I do? My hands were bound, the rough ropes biting into my raw skin. Pain radiated from my swollen hand and throbbed in my head. My body felt broken, beaten beyond endurance, and my mind reeled from the terror of it all. My stomach twisted violently, and I began to retch again, gagging on the emptiness in my belly. Suddenly, I became aware of their presence–closer now, their breath hot and rancid as they loomed over me like wreaths. Their leering faces swam into focus, grotesque and menacing in the dim light. My heart thundered in my chest, a frantic drumbeat against my ribs. A scream tore from my throat, the sound harsh to my ears, and then there was another, rising higher and louder as panic consumed me.
“What’s going on!” A voice boomed through my nightmare.
The two demons froze, their sneering expressions snapping to startled fear. They bolted away from me like rats scattering from a torch. A third man now stood at the door of my cell, his shadow casting a long, commanding presence across the filthy floor. I curled into the corner, making myself as small as possible, my sobs choking out between gasping breaths.
“Sir!” The two men snapped to attention, saluting stiffly as they backed away from the door.
The man’s eyes swept over the scene, his voice like thunder. “What is this?” he demanded. “A little girl? Why is she tied up like an animal?”
“Sir, this girl murdered Martuf!” the shorter of the two blurted, pointing at me with a stubby, accusatory finger.
The man barked out a sharp laugh, his voice cutting through the stale air. “Martuf was a pig,” he said dismissively, his tone dripping with disdain.
“I… I was… d-defending myself…” I managed to whisper, hiccupping between sobs as I cowered in the corner, unable to keep my tongue from stuttering.
The man turned toward me, his boots scuffing against the stone floor as he pushed past the two guards. He crouched down, his face weathered but surprisingly kind as he reached out. His rough hand tilted my chin upward, forcing me to meet his gaze.
“She’s just a wee thing,” he muttered, his brow furrowing. “Is there really any reason to have her bound like this?”
The guards muttered behind him, but neither dared to object as the man drew a knife from his belt. The blade flashed briefly in the dim light before he cut through the ropes that bound my wrists. The relief was immediate, though the sting of returning blood made me wince.
He rose to his full height, sheathing his knife in one smooth motion. Turning to the guards, his voice was sharp and unyielding. “Don’t either of you dare lay a hand on her, you hear? Lashings for anyone who does.”
Cold fear sank into my stomach as the two guards glared at me through the bars. Their eyes bore into me, their twisted grins promising something far worse than the cell’s darkness. I could hear them whispering, their voices low and conspiratorial, but the pounding of my heart drowned out most of their words.
“‘E won’t always be here…” one of them muttered with a sneer.
Then they were gone, their retreating footsteps fading into the corridor. For a moment, the cell was silent save for my ragged breaths. I wasn’t sure if I had passed out or if my mind was beginning to betray me. It didn’t matter—they weren’t wrong.
The third man, the one who had freed my hands and offered his protection, couldn’t always be there. He couldn’t stop them from finding me when the evenings stretched long or when the guards changed shifts.
They made sure of that.
Quick, brutal beatings came first—sharp fists to my ribs or slaps that left my ears ringing. But it didn’t end there. They took turns, each watching for the other to ensure they wouldn’t be caught. Their enjoyment grew darker, more twisted. I could do nothing to stop them.
They would tie my hands, binding them so tightly that my skin burned, then leave me hanging from a hook in the wall. The rough stone scraped against my back, the weight of my body pulling painfully on my shoulders. My cries echoed in the empty cell, unheard and unanswered.
They were careful—calculating. Their blows landed where they wouldn’t leave marks visible to others, their fists and boots aimed at my ribs, my stomach, my back. They gagged me to stifle my cries, ensuring no sound of their cruelty reached beyond the cell. They avoided my arms and legs, the places my shift did not cover, as if preserving the illusion that I was untouched.
The first few beatings left me certain that one of my ribs had been cracked. The sharp, searing pain with every breath was a constant reminder of their methodical brutality. I learned quickly, though: the more I cried out, the harder they hit. My screams seemed to feed their depravity, spurring them to greater cruelty as they took their turns with me.
There was no sun in my nightmare, no light to mark the passing of time. Day and night blurred into one endless haze of fear and pain. I slept fitfully, curling into myself in the dark, bracing for the next attack. Quiet weeping became my only release, the dull ache of my body and the sharp sting of every movement my constant companions.
I was undone—stripped of hope, of will, of everything that made me feel human.
Did they forget I was here? Or was I kept solely for their amusement? A free sport for their cruelty, their vile needs met at their whim. My existence had been reduced to a source of their twisted pleasure, to be taken whenever the urge struck them.
My world shrank into a haze, my body no longer mine. I couldn’t bear to stay inside myself. My mind wandered, seeking refuge in fractured memories–dreams of sunlight warming my skin, of running through golden fields, my mother…her death had been the catalyst for the hell I was in–a series of events that spiraled far beyond my control.
It was as though I were watching my life through a grimy pane of glass, unable to touch or change anything. The girl I once was felt like a stranger, her memories distant. This couldn’t be my fate? Surely it couldn’t end like this.
Then the thought came unbidden, sharp and bitter: Why couldn’t I just die?
I ate the bread and water they brought me quietly, without complaint. There was no need to draw their ire more than I already had. Each bite tasted like ash, but I forced it down knowing I needed the strength, even if my heart screamed otherwise.
In the long, empty stretches of time I spent in that dank, suffocating cell, the thought of giving in often whispered to me. If I just stopped…if I refused to eat…it would end. Everything would end. My nightmare would end. I would slip away, away, away…to wherever my mother was. The thought tempted me, its allure pulling at the edges of my broken and shattered will.
But something inside me wouldn’t let go. Listlessness gave way to anger–sharp, hot, and unyielding. That anger began to forge my resolve, hardening it like tempered steel. I would not give them the satisfaction of dying. If they wanted me to vanish into nothing, I would fight to exist, if only to spite them.
My hand had healed over time, though it left behind a pale, jagged scar. A constant reminder of how this nightmare began. I stared at it often, tracing the scar with my fingers, as if its ridges could tell me how I had come to this point.
Eventually, they grew bored of me. Perhaps it was my silence, my refusal to cry out or fight back. I had become limp and flaccid in their hands, a thing they could no longer break because I had already withdrawn too far for them to reach. My body no longer seemed to hold the allure it once had.
Or perhaps…I had simply been forgotten, discarded, left to rot. I couldn’t tell which was worse–their vile attentions or the suffocating weight of being utterly abandoned.
The visits became infrequent, tapering off into apathy. They only brought me food after what felt like days without it. Hunger gnawed at my insides, but I still did not complain; silence was safer than drawing attention.
I began to track the passing days by the rats that scurried across stone floors outside my cell. They seemed to appear during the hours that I assumed were night, when the patrols grew quieter and the oppressive stillness of the hallways pressed down like a shroud. Their scratching and squeaking became my only markers of time, the only reminder that the world outside my cell still moved forward.
On one of the endless days I spent awake, a disturbance broke the monotony of my block in the cell house. The usual silence was shattered by the clatter of boots and the gruff shouts of guards. It was unfamiliar, different–something new in the suffocating routine of my imprisonment.
Curiosity stirred within me, and I crawled towards the bars, pressing my face against the cold metal to catch a glimpse of the commotion. Three guards were dragging a man, his form ragged and bloodied, down the corridor towards my cell. His head was hung low, his steps faltering as though he was barely conscious.
The sight sent a shiver down my spine, and I quickly retreated to the corner of my cell, hoping to remain unnoticed…my heart pounding with the sudden fear of them remembering.
One of the guards stepped forward, a ring of keys jangling in his hand. He moved to my cell, his expression twisted in annoyance. “Why lock an empty cell, anyway?” he muttered as he fumbled with the lock, the sound of metal on metal echoing through the corridor.
“What…” he began as the door creaked open. Glancing down at a piece of parchment he held, his brow furrowed. “You’re… why are you here?”
I blinked at him, stunned by the question. My mouth opened, but no sound came out. My voice—if I still had one—was lost somewhere in the thick fog of fear and disbelief.
“Hey!” one of the other guards barked, drawing the man’s attention back. The prisoner they held had begun to struggle, jerking against their hold with renewed vigor. The key-wielding guard hesitated, glancing between me and the chaos in the corridor. “Bring him in already!” his companion growled impatiently.
“No matter. Come here,” the guard snapped, stepping forward and grabbing my arm. Pain shot through me, and I yelped as his rough grip wrenched me out of the cell. My legs, unused to such sudden movement after so long confined, buckled beneath me. I stumbled forward and fell, my knees striking the cold, unforgiving stone with a sharp crack.
I barely had time to catch my breath before I saw them throw the ragged man into the cell. He hit the ground hard, but he was on his feet in an instant, shouting profanities and pounding against the bars. The guards turned their attention to him, their taunts and laughter echoing through the corridor.
They had forgotten me.
Before I realized what I was doing, I was moving. My body, instinctively acting on the fragile hope of escape, began to crawl backward, dragging myself toward a shadowed side hall. My heart thundered in my chest, the fear of being caught urging me onward.
The side hall had no cells, just long, darkened walls that felt both like a salvation and a trap. My hands gripped at the rough stones, their uneven edges giving me leverage as I forced my trembling muscles to work. I managed to pull myself to my feet, every movement screaming with exhaustion and pain.
I started to walk, each step shaky and uncertain, but the noise of the guards faded behind me. The corridor twisted and turned, and my vision blurred with effort and panic. Finally, a doorway appeared to my right, its shadowed frame offering a chance at refuge.
Desperation overtook my fear. I stumbled toward it, my breathing ragged, and slipped inside. The room was small and cold, but it was a hiding place. For now, it was enough.
It was a storeroom, I discovered after catching my breath.I moved carefully around the small space, using the floor-to-ceiling shelving for support as my legs threatened to give out beneath me. The air was cool and carried the faint scent of wood and dried herbs. My eyes darted around the dim room, searching for anything of use.
My heart leapt into my throat when my gaze landed on a bundle wrapped in wax paper, sitting unassumingly on one of the shelves. Greed overtook caution as I reached for it with trembling hands, silently praying to the gods who had long since abandoned me.
With desperate fingers, I tore open the bundle. The scent hit me first—strong, briny, unmistakably fish. Dried, salted fish. My stomach growled loudly, and I clutched the bundle greedily, stuffing the strips of meat into my mouth. The salt burned my cracked lips, but I didn’t care. My teeth worked at the tough meat, my chewing slowing as the initial frenzy ebbed.
I sank to the floor, the wax paper still clutched in one hand as I savored the rare taste of food that wasn’t dirty water or stale bread. For the first time in what felt like forever, my stomach wasn’t an empty, gnawing void.
A contented sigh escaped me, quiet and almost disbelieving, a fleeting moment of peace.
My throat suddenly constricted, dry and aching, and I realized how parched I was. The saltiness of the fish had only worsened the desperate thirst clawing at me. I dropped the bundle of dried fish and pulled myself up, clinging to the shelves as I scanned the room for anything that might hold liquid. My heart leapt when I spotted a partially drunk wineskin nestled in the corner of one of the shelves.
Almost crying with relief, I grabbed the bag, yanking out the cork with trembling fingers. Tilting the skin to my lips, I let the liquid flow down the back of my throat in deep, greedy gulps. The wine was warm, its taste sharp and heady, but I didn’t care. It filled the hollow ache in my stomach, the warmth spreading through me, leaving me feeling woozy but oddly comforted.
I sank back to the ground, placing the wineskin on my right and the bundle of fish on my left. The sensation of something in my stomach, something other than water and stale bread, was almost overwhelming. I tore into a few more pieces of the fish, chewing slowly this time, letting the tough meat ease gnawing hunger.
But then, a strange unease crept over me. The warmth of the wine turned sour, curling uncomfortably in my gut. A sharp cramping pain shot through my middle, doubling me over. Panic surged as I crawled toward the corner of the room, my body heaving violently.
I retched until there was nothing left, my stomach clenching cruelly even after it had emptied itself. Weak and trembling, I collapsed onto the floor, gasping for breath. Tears streamed down my face, sobs rattling my exhausted body as I struggled to push myself into a seated position.
The food that had seemed so holy, so life-giving, now felt like a curse. The wineskin, once a gift, lay discarded far from me. My stomach churned angrily, a reminder of my fragile state, but slowly, painfully, it began to settle. I sat quietly in the dim light, my arms wrapped around my knees, waiting for the storm inside me to pass.
After some time, the shaking subsided enough for me to attempt getting my legs under me. Every movement felt strained, my body weaker than it had ever been—even weaker than during the endless days I’d spent in the cell. I glanced up at the shelves, desperate to spot something within reach that would spare me the effort of standing. But from where I sat, there was nothing I could see, just shadows and vague outlines.
Slowly, and with no small amount of pain, I pulled my legs beneath me and began to rise. The first attempt failed, my trembling muscles refusing to cooperate. The second left me gasping, my arms gripping the shelving tightly to keep from collapsing. On the third try, I managed to stand, leaning heavily on the shelves like a crutch.
I moved slowly around the room, my eyes scanning the contents of the shelves more clearly now. The storeroom was sparsely stocked, its dusty corners revealing little of value. A few pieces of metal utensils lay scattered on one shelf, their dull surfaces catching faint glimmers of light.
It was one of those glimmers that drew my eye—and then froze me in place.
A fragmented reflection stared back at me, warped by the curve of a dented spoon. My breath hitched as I whimpered softly, unable to stop myself from reaching out. I snatched the spoon with shaking hands, holding it up to my face.
The sight was both unfamiliar and devastating. My dark hair hung in matted, dirty strands around my face, the once-lustrous waves reduced to a tangled mess. My cheeks, hollowed and sunken, made my cheekbones jut out sharply, casting harsh shadows that aged me beyond my years. My eyes, once bright and curious, now stared back dull and haunted.
I hardly recognized myself.
My grip on the spoon faltered as my hands began to tremble again, but I couldn’t tear my gaze away from the reflection. This was what they had done to me.
I never considered myself a pretty girl. The nasty woman who owned the inn made sure I knew it. She would sneer at me, her sharp voice cutting through my thoughts: “Yer lucky, you know. No man will want you, plain as you are. Yer hair’s the color of dirt, yer face is nothin’ special.” She never missed an opportunity to remind me that I didn’t have the looks or the body to win a good man’s hand. “I’m yer only hope,” she would hiss, “unless you want to end up on the streets—or worse, in some whorehouse, where men’ll use you up and you’ll never see a single coin of gold for it.”
Her words stuck to me like burrs, lodged deep in my skin. I’d known even then that I wasn’t pretty like the girls I’d sometimes see in the streets—those girls in clean, well-fitted dresses, their heads held high as if they belonged in a world far removed from mine. No, I wasn’t one of them, but what I saw in the spoon’s warped reflection made my chest tighten with grief.
The image staring back at me didn’t even look human. My face was smeared with dirt, streaks of grime marking the hollowed planes of my cheeks. Dark specks stood out starkly against my pallid skin—blood, dried and flaking. Mine, or… his.
The thought made my stomach lurch. My hand shook as I tried vainly to wipe at my face, but the effort only made it worse. The filth smeared further, the reality of it too much to bear.
With a sharp breath, I threw the spoon down onto the shelf, the clang echoing through the quiet room. I turned away, forcing myself to move on. I couldn’t think about that—not now. If I stopped, if I let those thoughts consume me, I wasn’t sure I’d ever be able to move again.
I kept searching, desperate to find something –anything– that I could use to clean myself. In the corner of the room, a crate caught my eye. Inside, to my surprise and joy, were scraps of cloth and, more importantly, clothes.
I pulled out a pair of pants, a shirt, and a cloth cap, my hands trembling with urgency as I glanced around to make sure I was still alone. They were slightly too big, hanging awkwardly on my emaciated frame, but they were clean. That was enough. I rifled through the crate again, pulling out more clothes and twisting one of the discarded shirts into a makeshift belt to hold the pants in place. I pulled the hat over my head, stuffing my matted, filthy hair into it. At least it would be out of the way. It wasn’t perfect, but it would do for now.
Exhaling shakily, I sank back to the floor. Grabbing a few more pieces of cloth from the crate, I tore them into strips and doused them liberally with the wine from the skin. The sharp scent stung my nose, but I didn’t care. I began wiping at my face and hands with frantic determination, scrubbing at the layers of grime and smears of blood.
When I finally dared to look at myself again, using the spoon from earlier, I saw a face that was slightly cleaner, though still gaunt and hollow. The dark shadows under my eyes remained, and no amount of scrubbing could erase the evidence of what I had endured.
“It will h-have t-to d-do,” I stuttered under my breath, tossing the spoon aside as if turning away from the reflection could keep the memories at bay. I didn’t allow myself to look any longer. What hope was there for me if I survived? I shook my head, silencing the thought. There was no time for despair now—not yet.
I found myself sitting back on the floor, weariness overpowering the fear of being caught. My body felt impossibly heavy, the weight of exhaustion pressing down on me like a leaden blanket. Slowly, I lifted the wineskin back to my lips, drinking in measured sips. The liquid soothed my parched throat, its warmth spreading through my limbs and tingling at the tips of my fingers. The relentless ache in my body dulled, and the trembling that had wracked me for hours stilled entirely.
I tipped the skin upward, letting the last few drops of wine drip onto my tongue before setting the empty bag beside me. My eyelids grew heavy, drooping despite my best efforts to keep them open. My head began to nod, my body surrendering to the temptation of rest.
But just as I was slipping into a haze of sleep, a sharp bite on my ankle yanked me violently back to reality.
I jerked awake, my heart pounding as I clapped a hand over my mouth to stifle a cry. Rats. Several of them had swarmed the bundle of dried fish I had left on the floor, their small, glinting eyes and scrabbling claws illuminated faintly by the dim light. They tore greedily at the food, their sharp teeth ripping through the wax paper and the meat with an audible fervor.
I tried to leap to my feet, but my legs failed me. I collapsed to the floor with a muffled gasp, scrambling backward on my hands and knees as fast as I could. My breath came in shallow, panicked bursts as I hauled myself away from the frenzy of fur and teeth, the sound of their gnawing sending a shiver up my spine.
Finally, with a burst of effort, I managed to get back to my feet. I staggered toward the doorway, my heart hammering in my chest as I pushed myself into the corridor beyond. The cool air of the hallway hit my face, but I didn’t stop to savor it. I needed to move, to put as much distance between myself and the storeroom as possible.
Once I was out in the hallway, I leaned heavily against the wall, my legs trembling beneath me as they struggled to remember their old purpose. I paced carefully back and forth in front of the doorway, each step slow and deliberate. My hand trailed along the rough stone for balance, the cool surface grounding me as I tried to gather my thoughts.
Fear coiled tightly in my chest, twisting its way through my mind. I didn’t know where I was or how far I’d wandered from the guards and their cells. The storeroom had been a stroke of luck, a brief sanctuary found in the chaos, but now I was adrift again.
What was I going to do?
The question echoed relentlessly, every possible answer swallowed by the same, unrelenting truth: I didn’t know. The walls seemed to close in around me, the dim corridor stretching endlessly in both directions, offering no clear path forward. My breath hitched as panic threatened to take hold, and I clutched at the wall to steady myself.
Think, I told myself. You have to keep moving.
But where? And to what end?
The sound of boots against stone echoed down the corridor, sharp and deliberate. Fear surged through me, spurring my decision. I fled in the opposite direction, keeping to the right side of the hall, my hand brushing the wall as I moved. I prayed silently that any opening would lead to another hallway—one that might lead me closer to freedom.
Eventually, a door appeared on my left. I hesitated for only a moment before pushing it open, revealing a narrow flight of stairs spiraling upward. My breath caught in my throat, exhaustion pulled at every step.
For a fleeting moment, my mind drifted to memories of sneaking around my parents’ home as a child, pinching biscuits and scraps of bread from the kitchen when no one was looking. It was rare that my mother caught me in the act; it was always after, when she noticed the food was missing. This wasn’t my mother’s house. There was no warmth here, no safety. I had to keep moving. I shook my head sharply, forcing the memories away. I couldn’t afford to be distracted, not now. I needed to stay focused.
Every sound—each creak of the wood, the distant murmur of voices, the muffled thud of boots—sent my heart racing. The pounding of my heart was sure to give me away.
Anytime I heard voices, I flattened myself against the walls, pressing into the shadows as much as I could. I hid in doorways, ducked behind crates, and tried to look as uninteresting as possible. When there was no place to hide, and I was forced to pass a guard, I quickened my steps, my head low, attempting to look as though I had a purpose—like I belonged.
But I was hopelessly lost.
I had climbed two flights of stairs already, but every hallway I entered felt the same. Endless corridors with no sign of an exit. It was as if my nightmare refused to let me go, trapping me in a maze with no way out. The panic built steadily in my chest, threatening to claw its way to the surface.
As I rushed past another guard, my heart pounding in my ears, I caught his glance out of the corner of my eye. He was watching me, his gaze sharp and questioning. I didn’t dare look back. Instead, I hurried my pace, keeping my face down and hoping he would lose interest.
“You, boy!” the guard’s shout rang out behind me.
I froze, mid-step, my body stiffening as dread washed over me.
His heavy footfalls echoed against the stone floor, growing louder until I felt the weight of his hand clamp down on my shoulder. I caught my breath, and suppressed a shout of alarm. I tried to remain still.
“Boy, where are you headed?” His gravelly voice rumbled low, the sound reverberating through me. It shook me to my core, every syllable dripping with authority.
I swallowed hard, my throat dry as sandpaper. “The… the e-exit, ser,” I stammered, my voice trembling despite my best effort to steady it.
His grip tightened briefly, and I clenched my fists at my sides to keep from trembling. The silence that followed stretched unbearably, my heart pounding in my chest as I awaited his reply.
The guard snorted, a sound of irritation rather than suspicion. Without warning, he spun me around by the shoulder, the sudden motion almost sending me sprawling to the floor. His rough hand pointed back the way I had come.
“You’re going the wrong way,” he barked. “Head up this hallway, turn left, then down another flight of stairs, and take a right. Offices and the exit are there.” His voice carried the dismissive authority of someone who didn’t want to be bothered. “Next time you’re delivering something, don’t forget the way you came in.”
Before I could even nod, he gave me a shove forward. The force sent me stumbling, and in my weakened state, I barely managed to stay on my feet.
I didn’t look back. My legs, though trembling with exhaustion, seemed to act of their own accord, carrying me forward. I broke into a run, his directions repeating in my head like a chant: Up this hallway. Left. Stairs. Right. Offices. Exit.
My heart pounded in rhythm with my footsteps as I clung to the thin thread of hope he had unknowingly handed me.
It wasn’t until I reached the ground floor that I slowed, my frantic pace easing into a weary shuffle. The light ahead drew me forward, bright and beckoning, a promise of freedom and life. My feet carried me instinctively, as though they had their own destination in mind.
The light.
It felt like an eternity since I’d seen it—since I’d felt the sun’s warmth on my skin. I no longer cared where I went; all that mattered was moving toward that glow. Each step felt heavier than the last, the dizziness creeping in until my vision blurred at the edges. I stumbled and caught myself against a stone pillar, leaning heavily as I gasped for breath.
I was so close. So close to air, to life, to something that didn’t reek of stone and fear. But my body was failing me. My legs shook uncontrollably, and my eyes grew heavy, the weight of exhaustion pulling me down. I rubbed at them, willing myself to stay awake, to keep going.
I need to rest. I need to be safe.
The thought clawed at my mind, twisting itself into despair. I wanted away from this nightmare. I wanted to live.
That thought, that fragile hope, unraveled me. It sent me spiraling into the abyss of my own mind.
Why couldn’t I just give up?
The question hit like a blow. Why couldn’t I just lay down, let sleep take me, and never wake again? The warmth I sought, the air I craved—it all felt so far away, as though it wasn’t meant for me.
But I couldn’t stop. Not yet. Something kept pulling me, pushing me to live.
Instantly, I realized I was not alone. The courtyard where I had stopped was alive with movement, a throng of people milling about in the open space. Their chatter and the shuffle of feet filled the air, a sharp contrast to the eerie silence of the prison halls.
A jolt of panic surged through me, spurring me into motion. I pushed off from the pillar and skirted the edge of the crowd, my eyes darting nervously from face to face. My heart raced, every fiber of my being urging me to avoid notice.
But as I moved, a flicker of opportunity caught my eye. A few large men, their fat purses hanging loosely from their belts, strode through the crowd with the careless confidence of those who’d never known hunger. My gaze locked on their purses.
Without slowing, I slipped close to them, my small frame weaving through the bustling throng unnoticed. My gait, already irregular from exhaustion, blended seamlessly into the chaos of the crowd. No one paid attention to someone my size bumping into them, and with unpracticed fingers, I lifted a few purses as I passed, and still was not noticed.
The weight of the coins in my hands was a strange, grounding comfort, a lifeline in the midst of the noise and confusion. I clutched them tightly, my steps quickening as I melted back into the edges of the crowd, my heart pounding with a mixture of fear and triumph.
A small voice in the back of my mind whispered to me: I do not steal. Cookies and biscuits stolen from my mother’s kitchen were not the same as gold, hard-earned by another.
But then another voice whispered, harsher and cruel: I do not kill, either.
My throat tightened, and my breath hitched painfully. All I could see was blood—splattered on my hands, dripping onto the stone floor, pooling where it didn’t belong. The memory made my stomach lurch, and I stumbled forward, spurred on by a fear that burned like fire in my chest.
The fear of being caught. For lifting the purse. For the murder I could never take back. That would haunt me.
I bolted out of the keep, bursting onto the streets. The light, the open space, the noise—it should have been a relief, but it wasn’t. The crowded street pressed in on me, every face a new threat, every passing glance filled with imagined recognition.
I looked into their faces, but I didn’t see strangers. I saw hate. Anger. The guards who had beaten me, the ones who had taken my body and laughed. The hag who had sold me like a trinket to be bartered with. Their faces blurred and twisted into one monstrous mass, and I cupped a hand over my mouth, trying to hold back the cry that rose in my throat.
I ran. My feet hit the cobblestones in a frantic rhythm, taking me anywhere, everywhere. It didn’t matter where—just away.
I was free.
But I wasn’t.
Every face was a reminder. Every hand another that would strike me, hurt me, take something from me. Tears stung my eyes, blurring my vision until the streets became an indistinct haze of shapes and shadows. My chest heaved as I gasped for air, panic closing in like iron bands around my ribs.
Suddenly, I collided with someone.
I screamed as their hand reached out to steady me, my voice raw and shrill, and I shoved them away with a strength I didn’t know I had. Without stopping to see who it was or where I was, I kept running, the world a blur of terror and noise. The panic overrides everything else.
Finally, the crowds thinned, the noise of the bustling street fading into the background. Relief came in the form of an empty alley, its shadows stretching like a quiet refuge. I stumbled toward it, my legs giving out beneath me as I collapsed into a pile of discarded trash.
The sharp, acrid smell of rot and decay filled my nostrils, but I couldn’t summon the strength to care. My body screamed for rest, every muscle trembling with exhaustion. My eyes, traitorous and heavy, closed of their own accord, pulling me toward the edge of unconsciousness.
I knew I needed to move, to find someplace truly safe, but my limbs refused to obey. The ground beneath me was hard and cold, the faint stench of refuse clinging to the air. I was vulnerable here—exposed—but I couldn’t summon the strength to rise.
For a moment, the world blurred into a haze of half-formed thoughts and aching memories. I wanted to keep going, to escape this nightmare fully, but my body had reached its limit. My breath came shallow and ragged as I lay still, fighting to stay awake, knowing I couldn’t afford to fall asleep.
And yet, the darkness crept in at the edges of my mind, a slow, inescapable tide…