Page 2 of The Scars Within
They made me fight but wouldn’t let me lose.
A loud crack jolted me from my useless thoughts. The stampede always shook the walls, but this was more impactful than usual. I heard a deep scream, and the scalding sunlight burned my eyes as the door burst open. I cowered in my corner, trying to scream but only managing a raspy wheeze.
I hid my face behind my forearms and the iron shackles, trying to make myself appear as small as possible. But the footsteps came closer and closer. The one responsible for the busted door growled under their breath and then yanked on my chains. I tried to kick back, but they shoved me down, pressing their knee into my body. I felt as weak as an ant being stepped on by a wolf.
They yanked my arms from my face and started messing with the shackles around my wrists, though I couldn’t imagine them getting any tighter. The metal cut into my skin as they fumbled with the locks, their grip rough and unyielding. My vision blurred from the sudden light and the fast movement, but I caught a glimpse of the hands fooling with my shackles—they looked just like mine. Those hands freed my wrists and then moved to my ankles. Both sets of iron shackles clanked when they hit the ground together.
“The rest is up to you,” said a raspy voice.
Then they left. Or was I imagining the whole thing? Had I somehow gone into a trance, my subconscious finding a way to break open my shackles? I was so out of it; I will never know
But I didknow one thing…
I was free.
I couldn’t stand up quickly, so I crawled towards the door, trying to be as quiet as possible in case the men were standing guard around my Rock Bottom. I peeked through the cracks but saw no one near. I could still hear the stampede and the cheers.
I pulled the door open slowly, quietly—still, nobody.
Using the door as leverage, I forced my body to stand. Every muscle and nerve in my body screamed in pain. My joints stretched after months of being stationary. It felt like I had been doused in flames, but I got myself up on my own two feet. I turned to see what kind of hell my Rock Bottom was—a shed. An old wooden shed had imprisoned me.
I had broken through the iron shackles meant to keep me down. And I pulled myself up off the ground. I climbed my way out of Rock Bottom with my bare hands, the dirt under my nails as proof. I walked back into the sunlight after two years of being broken. I may have stumbled after a few steps, but I got myself back up once again.
I kept dragging my feet, one in front of the other, through the woods, following an old cobblestone path. To anyone else, it might have taken twenty minutes. But to me, it felt like days until I made it to the end of the road and turned to see a stadium with bleachers full of a cheering crowd. Then I saw what caused the commotion that I called the stampede. I was right on the nail.
Oh, the irony.
It was horse racing. While I was a prisoner in a shed, competitive horse races were being held next door. While I lay in my own filth, people were here for entertainment. While I starved to death, people spent their coins on greasy foods to fill their stomachs.
And nobody knew I was here.
Nobody came to rescue me.
Nobody cared.
And now– nobody is here to stop me.
For the first time in I don’t know how long, I felt an emotion. A knot in my throat stole my breath. My gut hollowed out. I felt the fiery heat of anger burning through my chest. I didn’t know what I did to deserve this life, but I am damn sure tired of playing with the cards I was dealt.
Even if I’m alive, I’ll never live.
Even if I fight, I’ll always lose.
I stumbled my way towards the track, ignoring the gasps of terror as villagers spotted me. I must look like I just crawled out of my grave.
I want them to witness the depth of my suffering. I want them to feel the weight of their guilt as they see my misery. I want them to know that while they enjoyed their lives, an innocent nearby had been living in hell.
Because I am finally in control. And I am finallyfreeto end my suffering.
Tears streamed down my face, mingling with the dirt and grime. My body shook with sobs, the pain and anguish of the past two years pouring out of me in a torrent.
The racers were all on the other side of the track while I pushed through—or more likely fell through—the flimsy wooden railing that encircled the course.
I tripped and landed on my hands and knees in the dirt. Then, I began to crawl because I lacked the energy to get back on my feet. The crowd’s cheers died, replaced by murmurs of confusion and concern. I feel numb, detached from my own body, my mind a haze of exhaustion and pain.
I heard someone shout, but it was like a distant echo. Nobody can stop me now. I refuse to let fate win another round. So– I keep moving forward, inch by inch, towards the center of the track. The racers are almost to my end of the course, the pounding of hooves growing louder with each passing second.
I sit back on my heels, my body trembling, my voice barely a whisper.
