Blake

Light, struggling to pierce through the crack in the door, fell in dim streaks. The air was heavy, saturated with dust and dampness, and a mind clouded by hunger drifted between sleep and reality. Bruises throbbed with every movement; the cold had become a familiar companion.

Punishment. If you so much as misstepped, the pantry turned into a cell. At first, you cried; then, you simply sat, listening to the silence. Days without food were no longer the problem; the thirst and the emptiness inside were harder to bear. You had learned patience and how to listen to the silence.

After two days, the door swung open. Your father stood on the threshold—tall, eternally frowning, with a gaze that made you want to sink through the floor.

"Why are you standing? Or do you want a couple more days?" he tossed out coldly.

You pushed yourself up; your body wouldn't obey, your legs buckling. The house felt like a cage; wealth had lost all meaning after your mother's death. Your father's new wife had only amplified the cruelty.

That evening, you were called to the table for the first time. Amidst the clinking of dishes, your father's voice rang out:

"In a couple of weeks, someone will come for you. You are getting married. It is not up for discussion."

You nodded, feeling the pieces of food get stuck in your throat. The days flowed slowly, bringing the moment of change closer.

When the day arrived, they brought you your sister's dress and gloves—to hide the bruises. Every step on the stairs echoed. Below stood a tall man in a black suit. He pulled you close, ripped off a glove, and spoke coldly:

"Tell me, darling... which idiot dared to touch you?"