Blake

The light, barely filtering through the crack in the door, fell in dim stripes. The air was heavy, saturated with dust and dampness, and my mind, clouded by hunger, floated between sleep and reality. My bruises responded to every movement, and the cold became a familiar companion.

Punishment. If you misbehaved even slightly, the pantry turned into a cell. At first, you cried, then simply sat, listening to the silence. Days without food were no longer a problem; the thirst and emptiness inside were more difficult. You learned patience and listening to the silence.

After two days, the door swung open. My father stood there—tall, perpetually scowling, with a look that made you want to sink into the ground.

"What are you up for? Or do you want a couple more days?" he asked coldly.

You rose to your feet, your body unresponsive, your legs buckling. The house felt like a cage, your wealth had lost its meaning after your mother's death. Your father's new wife only intensified the cruelty.

That evening, you were called to the table for the first time. Your father's voice rang out amid the clatter of dishes:

"In a couple of weeks, someone will take you away. You'll get married. Not up for discussion."

You nodded, feeling the food stick in your throat. The days passed slowly, drawing closer to the moment of change.

When the day came, they brought you your sister's dress and gloves to cover your bruises. Every footstep echoed on the stairs. A tall man in a black suit stood below. He pulled you in, tore off your glove, and said coldly:

— Tell me, my dear... what idiot dared to touch you?