Page 30 of Remi's War (Four Dark Horsemen 2)

From Amalia’s Diaries…

My shaking limbs can barely hold the pencil in my hand as I write these words, scratching the tip harshly against the dirty paper filled with stupid drawings the psychiatrist showed me.

However the words are the only escape I have in this place that should be called hell on earth, ruled by the heartless devil who has no mercy for anyone as long as his pockets are full.

Or maybe he just enjoys inflicting eternal doom on those weaker than he is while getting off on their cries of pain?

The sink in the right corner of this small, square room slowly drips water, the sound grating on my nerves and driving me insane. I fist my hand, hating how I long to rock back and forth in this filthy bed and cover my ears to get a temporary reprieve.

However, silence is not an option in the room with metal walls in this asylum where Beatrice and Jonathan placed me when I could no longer resist the desire to deliver a blow hoping he wouldn’t survive. I stabbed him with a knife, screaming for him to stop hurting me.

Everything inside me came alive when the blade pierced his skin, pouring blood on my hands. His horrified scream was like the most beautiful symphony blocking away the outside world and keeping me in the nirvana of my creation.

The pleasure was so strong it washed over me in wave after wave, whispering to me to stab him again, but before I could, Beatrice interfered and called security.

She locked me in my room, smeared in his blood, while waiting on an update for Jonathan, who to my dismay lived. However, he wasn’t happy about my rebellion.

His patience ran thin, so he sent me here, laughing in my face as I thrashed in the guards’ hands, and he promised to find Penelope as his new toy.

Which brought such devastation to my heart I thought I wouldn’t be able to breathe, but how wrong I was.

I’m still surviving every single day, resisting their constant torture and medicines they forcibly put in my mouth. Although, after discovering they don’t bother to treat the minds of people who are already insane, I learned to act in a certain way that led them to believe I no longer differentiated reality from my imagination.

The cries of the other inmates—no one is here of their own accord; Elijah, the owner, said so himself—constantly fills the night, while during the day, the evil people who work here use their power to torture us.

Sometimes they withhold food.

Sometimes they don’t let people go to the washroom.

And sometimes they like to beat you up when you don’t follow their orders.

Crying overnight into the pillow probably spreads sadistic joy through their blood, and I hate myself for such weakness, but the pain cannot be held inside. At some point, it’s going to erupt.

I think it’s been two years now in this fresh hell, and still no one has shown up to rescue me. Praying for a powerful man to come break this awful circle of abuse drawn around my life has proved to be worthless too.

What if all this talk about goodness prevailing against evil is lies?

And in truth, only evil can extinguish evil, because neither plays fair and both are ruthless in their nature?

Slowly, my hopes transform into resentment that tastes bitter on my tongue, and darkness sinks deeper and deeper into my soul, somehow serving as a blanket over the pain and injustice of it all.

My attempts at escape have all ended up being fruitless; each time, someone caught me and delivered more punishment.

I think at some point I even stopped caring if I lived or not. I was too afraid to try again after the last time when they left wounds on my back from their knives and then let them go untreated to fester for days before giving me any help.

Still, I write this entry as if I still have my usual journal, because only the words keep me sane. They won’t read it either. I tear it into tiny little pieces, and they don’t ask questions about it.

I’m not sure how much longer I can survive in this hell and not succumb to the madness calling my name so sweetly, extending her arm to me and promising peace if I just cross the line.

Penelope.

My sister’s name represents tight ropes wrapped around my wrists, attaching me to something solid, pulling me in a different direction while I just want to jump from the cliff.

However, ropes have a tendency to grow thin at some point.

And when mine do?

I will be just a memory in time.

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