Page 38 of Inevitable Endings
‘‘Time for your bath, princess,’’ the first one sneers, his voice rough.
They don’t wait for me to move. They grab me, one gripping my arm, the other unlocking the chain at my ankle. My legs protest as they drag me up, muscles stiff, aching from being kept in the same position for too long. I don’t stumble. I refuse to.
They haul me into the corridor. The hallway stretches in both directions, lined with cell doors identical to mine. Most of them are empty. The ones that aren’t hold only ghosts, faint remnants of past prisoners, their presence lingering in the scratches on the walls, the stains on the floors. The dim overhead lights flicker erratically, casting long shadows that dance across the damp stone.
The bunker, if that’s what this place is, feels old. Older than the men who run it. The walls are thick, the doors heavy, the architecture crude and functional. This wasn’t built for comfort. It was built for containment. For suffering.
I have no idea how Nick got to this place.
We pass an open cell where rusted chains still dangle fromthe walls, the remains of some medieval restraint system. A reminder that this place has seen its share of pain long before I ever set foot in it.
The air gets colder as they lead me deeper into the bunker. The floor is uneven in places, cracks running through the stone, as if time itself has been trying to break this place apart. But it still stands. Just like I do.
The shower room is just as I remember it—bare, unwelcoming. A large, rusted drain sits in the center of the floor, meant to wash away filth, sweat, blood. The walls are lined with exposed pipes, most of them corroded, leaking water that leaves streaks of rust down the stone.
They push me toward one of the stalls, no doors, no privacy. Just a single rusted showerhead jutting from the ceiling, like something ripped from a prison camp. The air here is thick with humidity, but there’s no warmth to it. Only the stale, wet stench of old water and mildew.
One of them turns the knob. The pipes groan, protesting as they force out a blast of water so cold it shocks my system instantly. It’s not just cold; it’s brutal. A rush of icy needles stabbing into my skin, stealing my breath, locking up my muscles.
I clench my jaw, forcing my body to endure it.
They watch. They always watch.
They want to see me break. They want to see me flinch, to shiver, to beg for it to stop.
But I don’t.
Instead, I stand beneath the freezing torrent, my body rigid, my breathing controlled. My skin tightens, goosebumps rising along my arms and chest, but I keep my expression blank. Cold is nothing. Pain is nothing.
One of them tosses a small bar of soap onto the wet floor. It lands with a dull slap, sliding across the slick tiles.
‘‘Clean yourself up,’’ the lean one says, voice dripping with mockery.
I don’t move right away. I stand there, letting the water pummel me, washing away the sweat, the blood, the filth of captivity.
Then, slowly, I reach down and pick up the soap. My fingers are stiff, the cold making every movement sluggish. I move methodically, scrubbing away the dirt, ignoring the bruises, the sore spots.
Minutes pass. Maybe longer.
The water stops without warning. My body screams from the sudden absence of the icy torment, my skin raw and burning from the extreme temperature shift. A towel, thin, rough, is thrown at my chest.
‘‘Dry off.’’
I do. My hands shake slightly as I drag the fabric over my skin, but I make sure they don’t see it.
They cuff me up again.
Then they’re dragging me back down the hallway, back through the damp corridors, past the empty cells and rusted chains.
Back to my cage.
The door slams shut behind me, the locks clicking into place, sealing me in.
And then, silence.
The darkness stretches around me, thick and unyielding. My skin is still ice-cold, my muscles aching from exhaustion, but I don’t let myself dwell on it.
I sit. I breathe. I wait.
