I was now in our basement, with my wrists tightly shackled to the cold floor.
Zachary sat beside me. The tenderness in his eyes was gone, replaced by an icy, merciless resolve.
“What are you hiding?” he demanded.
I closed my eyes, tears sliding silently down my face, unable to answer.
“If you won’t talk,” he said, his voice sharp and cold as a blade, “then I’ll make you understand real pain.”
He lit a cigarette, took a drag, and then pressed the burning tip against my skin.
A scream tore from my throat as the stench of burning flesh filled the air.
Dizziness washed over me. I didn’t know if it was the pain or the exhaustion overtaking me, but I felt the heat of the cigarette again.
My mouth opened, yet no sound escaped.
The audience’s words were filthy, cruel, and venomous, but they were nothing compared to what I had already gone through. Their cruelty no longer had the power to hurt me.
Maybe death would be a kind of release.
I bit down hard on my tongue, the metallic taste of blood spreading through my mouth.
"Something’s wrong... she's trying to commit suicide!" the doctor shouted.
Zachary sat beside me, his grip tightening around my neck as he forced my mouth open.