Page 1 of The Scars Within
Prologue
The pounding of hooves on dirt yanked me from another pitiful attempt at rest. I had finally managed to inhale enough clean air to calm myself and drift off. I never know how long I’m out—minutes, maybe hours—but never long enough to ease my pounding headache.
I call it the stampede. It happens frequently and is always accompanied by a cheering crowd. On stampede days, the noise fills most of the day and even occasionally through the night. I can never tell; I sit in complete darkness at all times.
The only relief from the darkness comes when they open the door. A sliver of sunlight will scald my eyes if I keep them open, so I usually shield myself from the burn. But the burn was the least of my worries when my captors were here.
Jaelyn used to be with me until they got tired of her fighting back. For some reason, they never tortured me the way they did her. I don’t know where she is or if she’s even alive. They took her a long time ago. If my cycle is any indicator, it’s been seven months since I was left alone.
And fourteen months before that.
The stench of my filth has become so normal that I don’t even notice it anymore. The men used to give me a waste bucket until I grew enough confidence to elbow one of them in the face when they came to replace it.
I gave up on myself a long time ago when I realized Jaelyn wasn’t coming back. I let go of my future, of myself. These iron shackles were now a part of my skin. I would say they’re my identity, but I’ve let go of that, too. I’m an empty husk of who I used to be.
I knew I was done when I felt no pain.
I knew I was ready to throw this fight.
The ropes that once held me captive were long enough to reach a rusty nail poking from the wooden wall. It was about as long as my middle finger but still sharp at the end. I saw it once when they opened the door on a bright morning. The sunlight beamed off the one rustless spot, signaling its presence.
For over a year, I thought of that rusty nail as a symbol of myself. It was bent at an odd angle, tarnished by years of misuse, but still sharp enough at the point. Every time I saw that nail light up, it was like a beacon of hope, a silly little light in my heart that said I would make it out alive.
It was a fucking pathetic beacon.
Nobody came for me.
I’m stuck in a place nobody will ever find… unless one day someone can magically read my mind.
After Jaelyn, nobody fought for me. Nobody cared that I had just disappeared. I didn’t know where I was or what kind of building I was in, but one thing was certain.
This is my Rock Bottom.
The men refused to hurt me too badly but wouldn’t let me leave. They wouldn’t even hint at why I was taken and kept here. All they did was ridicule me, leaving me to lie in my own filth. Sometimes, they used their hands to punish me for my foul mouth. I tried being a pest for awhile, hoping they’d grow tired of me and end it all. I wanted to make it worse so that someone would make that final call.
But they didn’t. They only wanted to keep me here, at Rock Bottom, as their pet. I was as useless as that bent, rusty nail sticking from the wall.
After they delivered the worst beating of my life but still didn’t finish the job, I knew I had given up on myself. I laid there, face down on the filthy dirt, breathing the soiled air into my lungs with every gasp. That was when I realized my previous bravery was a fool. My bravery led me to believe that I was at my lowest low. But the truth was—there were many, many more layers to my Rock Bottom.
I stayed like that for days.
Until I rose from Rock Bottom, stumbled over to my beacon, and punished myself for being fooled. I pressed my left arm’s upper muscles into that beacon’s sharp point and waited. I waited for fear to bubble up through my chest. I waited for instinct to take over. But it never came.
I was done.
I surrendered to the darkness in my soul.
I balanced what little weight I had on my left foot, getting the perfect angle. And I apologized. I apologized to myself for not being strong enough, for not being worthy enough to do something good in this life. I apologized for letting Rock Bottom become my home.
Then I shoved myself down and against the nail. My beacon of hope was now the knife that slashed through my muscles. I had been numb for so long; I just needed to feel something. I used my beacon of hope to cause myself physical pain so that I could feel something other than the pain inside. But I felt nothing. I didn’t cry as the blood gushed down my arm. I didn’t gasp; I didn’t shake. I was numb, inside and out.
Now, I had a bloody, rusty nail as a beacon of despair.
I was left alone long enough for the blood to dry completely and the wound begin to swell with the first signs of infection. Even in my haze, I could sense something different outside. Unlike the relentless stampede that passed by most days, this sound was heavier and moredeliberate. It rumbled like distant thunder, a steady pulse that echoed over and over, reverberating in the air for hours until it finally faded.
After the men discovered the new gash on my arm, the loose ropes around my hands turned into iron shackles around my wrists and ankles, with a chain short enough that I could only stand up halfway. They forced me to swallow a medicinal liquid to prevent infection.
They had to keep me alive but wouldn’t let me live.
