DEFIANT • kylo ren (18+)

01 - You know enough.

You let out a loose breath, wishing the Jedi you had been working under were here to guide you. Being alone, needing the guidance you have been working so hard for, your heart twists at the thought of never being able to complete your training. You had only just started.

Groaning, you pull yourself to the sink and clumsily turn the handle. Water drips weakly from the tap despite turning it all the way. Eager, throat dry and burning with the texture of sand, you turn your head under and lap up as much water as you can stomach. You take breaks to breathe, crouching by the tap for as long as your shaking legs will possibly allow, gulping down the clear gushing liquid. It has a slight metallic taste that lingers after you're done.

Finally satisfied, you drop the floor with your back to the bed, panting. In a moment of self pity, you catch yourself. You may only be a padawan, but it puts you in a better position than you would've been a few months ago.

You shake your head to rid yourself of the thought of where you were back then, knowing you must appreciate the Jedi and the help you have received. If you are to make it out of here alive you must use it well. Then, you can go back, and continue as an apprentice. You allow yourself a light smile.

You have to be brave.

It's time to attend to your wounds.

Your ribs have been on fire, and the idea of facing what is probably an ugly scrape makes you scan your lower half first.

Your legs are sprawled in front of you, cold and naked. Tight boxer type shorts and a t-shirt that does not fit you well. The cold air is biting at your bare skin, but that's the least of your worries. Your eyes scope the room once more, for evidence of living, clothes, food, anything. Your stomach grumbles as if on cue.

You bring your attention back to your legs, though bruised, you can spot only few minor scrapes. Though, you note thin red lines occasionally drawing blood around your ankles. From cuffs? Ropes? Lightly, you trace the tender skin, wincing as you follow the raw flesh around. Looks shallow, so they should heal soon.

Next, your arms. The same on your wrists as your ankles. The burning sensation on your ribs calls to you, suggesting you roll up your top to assess. A squeak escapes your lips and you quickly pull your top back down. Nausea drops through you as if tipped from a bucket.

The bruising across your ribs is nothing to the circle with a sun-like shape inside a hexagon branded to your skin. The flesh is exposed.

The First Order, as you'd suspected.

The conformation hits you hard, a landslide of chest-crushing fear overcoming you. Suddenly finding it hard to breathe, you stand, placing your hands on the sink for support. Your knees feel like buckling, but you ignore it. You feel so deeply sick you can't focus on anything but your breathing. You're in so much trouble.

Staring back at yourself in the mirror, you can't say you expected worse. Your lip is busted, and bleeding down your chin. Your nose is bleeding lightly, and a gash along your forehead is the culprit for the rest of the dried blood caking the side of your face - and the pounding you've been trying so hard to ignore.

Your hair is knotted, yanked from what you're sure was once a much neater bun. The braid denoting your padawan rank sits over your right shoulder, neatly. You tuck it into the hairband in hopes of concealing it. They don't need to know what the Resistance has been doing to bring some resemblance of Jedi back.

You're usually quite pretty. The woman staring back at you is beaten and scared.

It's all too overwhelming. You can barely recognise who you see in the mirror.