Page 146 of Nocturne

For the promise that someday, I’d get back to her.

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Month two

Another month had passed. Or maybe two. Time had blurred into an endless stretch of darkness, each moment indistinguishable from the next. Torture had become my only constant, a rhythm of pain and fear that dulled even the sharp edge of hope.

I was huddled in the corner of my cell, knees drawn to my chest, trying to melt into the cold, damp stone wall. Maybe if I stayed still enough, small enough, they wouldn’t see me. It was a lie I told myself every day, but it helped me survive.

The heavy squeak of the dungeon door echoed, its familiar groan cutting through the oppressive silence. My heart seized. They were coming.

I curled tighter, pressing my forehead to my knees. But something was different. There were voices—gruff, impatient—followed by the scrape of boots dragging something heavy.

I dared to lift my head.

Two men stepped into the dim light, hauling a woman between them. Her head lolled forward, her hair a matted mess obscuring her face. She wore camouflage pants and a matching shirt; the kind tourists wore when they ventured too far into places they shouldn’t be. A pair of binoculars dangled from her neck, bouncing with each rough pull of her captors until one of them yanked them free and tossed them aside.

Without ceremony, they flung her into the cell next to mine. Her body hit the ground with a dull thud, and for a moment, she didn’t move.

I stared, frozen, as they slammed her cell door shut and left, their laughter fading into the distance.

The woman stirred, a faint groan escaping her lips as she struggled onto her hands and knees. Then, as if realising where she was, she shot upright and stumbled to the bars.

“Hey!” she screamed, her voice raw and panicked. “What the hell is this? Where am I? Let me out!”

She rattled the bars with a force that made my chest tighten. It wouldn’t work. It never did.

I wanted to tell her to stop, but the words stuck in my throat. She was wasting her energy. She would need it later.

Her screams eventually gave way to sobs, her hands gripping the bars as she pressed her forehead against them. “Please… someone…”

I remained silent, unmoving in my corner. She wasn’t the first to cry like that, and she wouldn’t be the last. I should have felt something—pity, sorrow—but I had nothing left to give.

Then, she turned.

Her eyes found me, wide with horror. She took a shaky step back, her gaze scanning me as if she couldn’t believe what she was seeing. “There’s… there’s a kid in here?”

I flinched but didn’t respond.

Her face twisted with something like rage, and she whipped back toward the bars.

“How could you do this? She’s a child, you sick bastards!” Her voice cracked, echoing in the empty space.

No one answered. They never did.

When the silence stretched too long, she turned back to me, crouching by the bars. “Hey,” she said softly, her voice trembling. “Are you okay?”

I stared at her, unsure what to do. She seemed kind, but kindness didn’t last here. Kindness was just another weapon they could twist.

“It’s okay,” she continued. “I’m not going to hurt you. My name’s Willow. What’s yours?”

I hesitated. My lips felt dry, my voice unused.

Her face softened and her eyes roved all over me. She took me in, her eyes staying on my wounds for longer seconds. I didn’t know that I had to feel conscious about that, I was too used to them by then. As she took me in, I took her in.

She looked older than I was. Probably in her twenties. She was beautiful, with long blonde hair in curls and pretty features which made her look like a fairy my mother read me tales about.

“Are you hurt?” She asked the obvious.

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