Page 3 of Dark Bonds

Surviving?Ask me tomorrow.

Gasping for breath, I open my eyes to see the same stain on the yellow ceiling in the shape of a cat. For some fucked up reason, that stupid cat comforts me as I focus on the outline and how the tail wraps up and around its body, flicking at an ink blot. The paint is chipped, flaking off in jagged, uneven patches, the corners darkened with age and neglect, just like everything else in this prison. The walls seem to close in on me, the ceiling’s oppressive presence amplifying my claustrophobia. A faint, damp smell of mold lingers in the air, mixing with the pungent odor of disinfectant.

As my breathing regulates, the weight on my chest grows heavier, my lungs struggling to gulp in enough air. With each inhale, they rattle like I’m popping popcorn, making sharp, crackling sounds that reverberate through my chest.

I’m so sick of this, but I won’t let it break me.

The room is small, barely larger than a closet, and the walls are a sickly shade of beige, stained with patches of darker brown where water has seeped through. A single, bare bulb hangs from the ceiling, its harsh light creating deep shadows in the corners. The bed I’m chained to is little more than a cot, its thin mattress offering no comfort against the metal frame beneath.

“You’re awake.” The door softly creaks open, and Valerie steps through. Her perfume precedes her, a sickly sweet floral scent that mixes with the room’s mustiness. It’s overpowering, the artificial bouquet clashing violently with the natural decay around me, making my stomach churn.

I try not to notice the way her eyes brighten when she looks at me or the way her curls bounce around her face, each movement like a taunt. She’s beautiful, and she weaponizes that beauty, wielding it like a sword. Sometimes I wonder if she is an ancient goddess.

Yet she bleeds.

I know because I scratched her just to prove she’s real and not a figment of my imagination. The metallic scent of her blood still haunts me, a reminder of my own desperate attempts at rebellion.

Closing my eyes, I let my head thump back on my pillow and focus on breathing. The rattle doesn’t stop.

This isn’t the end… not yet.

It wasn’t a good run. It was absolute bullshit.

Memories flash through my mind of the cold, sterile orphanage where my parents left me without a backward glance, the countless foster homes, each promising love but delivering only disappointment, and finally, Valerie’s honeyed words of a better life that led me to this hellish prison. Myworld, once vast with possibilities, has shrunk to this room, these chains, and the constant battle for survival.

All of it is absolute bullshit.

Even my shadows have left me—the comforting, whispering presences that used to dance at the edges of my vision, offering comfort and strength.

Now, there’s nothing but harsh light and emptiness.

Perhaps that was Valerie’s goal all along—break me down until there is nothing left of me. She’s succeeded. For a brief moment, I thought maybe she’d help me, but that dream died when she kidnapped me and chained me to a bed. I was a fool to believe in her kindness and think she saw something worth saving in me.

As she sits on the bed beside me and places her hand on my forehead, I curl toward her as far as the chains will allow because I’m touch starved. Hell, I’m just starved in general. It’ll take me a lifetime to regain the weight and strength I lost if I ever find my motivation to live. I’ve lost that too. I’d rather die.

“Oh, my sweet Frankie.” She says my name like a prayer, her voice a soft, soothing murmur that makes my skin crawl.

There’s no one to pray to. Not anymore.

All the gods have forsaken me. I’ve prayed to each and every one of them. It was about the same time my shadows slipped away, leaving me to fucking rot.

Perhaps my shadows disappeared due to the amount of light that Valerie keeps on in here. Her torture isn’t anything that I thought I’d ever experience. The brightness burns my eyes, making them water constantly. I almost snort at that. In my last foster house with Bishop, he had me watchThe Godfathertrilogy. That is the torture I expected, not this… nurturing and fakeness while she keeps me chained to the bed until I look forward to her visits, her touch, and her voice.

I want to watch her bleed. I almost smile at that.

“Fuck,” she mutters under her breath before she gets up, letting the mask slip. As my eyelids flutter back open, I watch her make a call with her cell phone. The screen glows in the dim room, casting eerie shadows on the walls.

I have one of those too. It’s on the nightstand, dead and out of reach. She left it there for me just in case I wanted to let anyone know where I was, but there’s no one. It’s just me and this room with the fucking cat on the ceiling.

I focus on her words, muffled and hushed as she speaks into the phone.

“Fever, yeah.” She pauses. “Lungs are rattling. Just like the last one.”

The last one.

I shut my eyes again. I thought I heard screams and cries, but the room is soundproof. Every time she closes the door, my ears feel as though the atmospheric pressure rises and threatens to pop my eardrums. The silence is deafening, a constant reminder of my isolation.

One of these days, I’m going to get out of here, and when I do, I’m going to… What? Take her out? Take this house out? I’m too fucking weak to even walk.

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