S O L
I lie sprawled on the frigid ground, the memory of the knife's cruel carving lost in the haze of my own screams. The searing pain lingers, a bitter taste in the air that I can't quite grasp.
Blinking away the disorientation, the surroundings remain a blurred disorientation. The ceiling above me seems to undulate with every attempt to make sense of my reality. Each blink is a struggle against the fog that clings to my senses, a desperate plea for clarity.
A single drop, heavy with despair, lands on my skin from the ceiling. Turning my head, the droplet slides off my face and onto the floor, and I lock eyes with a white-haired man standing just beyond my cell in the dim light. His thin-lipped expression reveals nothing, offering nothing, only a silent acknowledgment of the agony.
Summoning strength I didn't know I possess, I lift myself from the cold tiles using my bloody elbows. My hair, now an unholy blend of blood and strands, clings to my face.
My voice, reduced to a raspy whisper, bellows, "Pray tell, how long have you had the honour of seeing them cut open my back?"
I don't recognize my own voice, let alone hear it, but I sense the primal anger seething through my lips. A defiance that I can't sense in my own body anymore, like it's been carved out.
"I guess not long enough," he grimly says, his voice laden with a heavy weariness. "I'm your designated cell guard. I told you that before you strode in there on your high horses."
"I'm assuming," I bitterly drawl. "That it wasn't a matter of option."
A cold silence settles over the atmosphere, and I begin to wonder if he's still there or if I've imagined him in my disoriented state. The stillness makes me question the reality of his presence. Then, breaking through the quiet, I catch a faint, resigned sigh.
"Malia put me on duty here," he answers, and I feel him near the cellar bars, wrapping his fingers around it. Quieter, he says, pressing his head against the bars, "You see, Atticus enjoys breaking things." His voice carries a weight of resignation. "It should be very evident by now that Atticus finds those who are less theatrical to be duller."
"Why are you bothering to tell me this, considering the clothing you're wearing as a guard? I retort, feeling my elbows begin to burn. "As if you hadn't delighted in watching them etch the number twelve on my back—" My voice catches in my throat like a net.
The white-haired guard's voice becomes raw, a slight anger coursing through his words. "I despise every moment of it. I never do, and that's why I'm precisely telling you to get off your damn high horses," he grumbles.
"Oh, really?" I drawl, sarcasm lacing my words. "What a saint you are."
I hear an annoyed sigh.
Slowly, the faint shuffle of his departure echoes, and a surge of desperation propels me onto my hands and knees.
I crawl toward the unforgiving metal bars, desperately inching away from the encroaching shadows. The cold tiles grate against my palms, each movement fueled by an urgency to escape the looming darkness.
My fingers tighten around the icy bars, moist with a cold sweat. "If there's even a shred of honesty in you, then tell me your name," I rasp, the muted glow of the dim yellow light casting upon my face.
His gaze pierces through me, and I detect a flicker of shock in his eyes as they meet mine. I attempt to straighten my back, but the pain amplifies, refusing to be ignored as it ripples like multiple lashes.
"I'm Castiel, and believe me, I'm being brutally honest with you," he answers. "I've seen a damn enough."
I shake my head in disbelief, and as I do, my dishevelled hair, matted with blood, comes unstuck from my face like a tangled veil. "Why would you be such a fool spoiling Atticus's amusement?" I ask in a hushed sigh.
Castiel's intense gaze traces the contours of my face, an unspoken acknowledgment of the tired streaks under my eyes and the crimson splatters that mar my skin. "I suppose losing a face like yours would indeed be a considerable loss," he lowly comments.
Ice snakes up my spine.
In an instant, my teeth bare in a cold, feral growl. "Do not feign the idea that you would risk your own life for the sake of my beauty. If that's your game, it merely brands you as an idiotic bastard."
A subtle curve graces Castiel's lips in response to the edge in my voice. "You'll see. I'll talk to you again soon," he replies.
As Castiel begins to walk out of the cellars, I grip the bars tighter, desperation seeping into my voice. "Where are you going?" I plead, the urgency palpable. "Castiel."
He doesn't reply, and the cold metal door slams shut, leaving me in a chilling silence. I move myself into the shadows of the corner, feeling the coldness grip my body in an iron fist.
Suddenly, each blink feels like an agonising eternity as I settle myself down and scrunch into a tight ball.
Desperation grips me in an iron fist, and I attempt to reassure myself that I'll get out, that I'll make it out of here. For a moment, I feel like I'm going to freeze as I become unnervingly still.
In the distance, I hear the unsettling squelch of a foot stepping into a puddle of water, a puddle formed from my own blood. I twist onto my back, the movement met with a chorus of protests from my aching body.
A figure emerges, a silhouette against the dimly lit backdrop. Long hair cascades around her, a stark contrast to the shadows. She approaches with calculated steps, and I watch with a sense of trepidation as she inserts a needle into my leg.
Panic sets in, and I scramble backward, but not quickly enough. The sharp prick of something entering my bloodstream sends a jolt through me. I manage to kick her leg in a feeble attempt to resist, sparing a quick glance at the open cellar door.
Her grunt echoes in the dim space, but whatever she injected into me immediately takes its toll, rendering me more tired.
Though I summon every ounce of strength to get on my hands and knees, attempting to scramble forward, the cellar door abruptly closes, imprisoning me once again in the suffocating darkness.
≪❈≫
I wake up again, sweat coating my head and dripping onto my collarbone. Immediately, my stomach churns, and I convulse, expelling vomit onto the floor.
Castiel is there again, turning with an arched eyebrow.
"What happened?" I rasp, scrambling back to the edge, my breath uneven as I survey the empty and cold cellar. My head feels cloudy and foggy.
I blink multiple times, but the haze persists, refusing to lift.
I touch my forehead, feeling an ache swelling at my temples. I try to remember what happened, who that woman was—my mind grasping at dark fragments, struggling to piece together the puzzle.
"It appears that you're unwell," Castiel blankly says, his gaze fixated on me. His feet subtly shift out of the way as my sickness waves through the tiles, and his nose crinkles. "Try not to think too hard."
"No—" I hesitate, my voice croaky, feeling my body heating. "A woman entered here and jabbed me with a needle. She injected something into me," I desperately explain, crawling up to the bars to capture his attention.
My palms press against the cold metal, a plea for understanding, but he waves me off. The dismissive gesture sends a shiver down my spine, and I feel myself shrink back in a cold shell.
"I didn't catch sight of any woman entering here, Sol," he dully replies, clearly bored.
I clench the bars tighter, the pressure causing my knuckles to ache as I feel the bones beneath my skin. "Don't demand trust if you're going to treat me like I'm out of my mind."
"Trust works both ways, so spare me the crazy act," Castiel icily snaps. "Trust me, I've dealt with plenty of prisoners. Your disorientation is likely from your back."
"It's not my back, and I damn well know what I saw!"
"Let's get one thing straight—you're still locked up in this place. Don't get delusions that I'm here to cater to your every need," he asserts, his eyes piercing into mine. "I've extended my trust, but that doesn't mean you get to exploit it."
I replay the scene in my mind once more, the details vivid and clear as day. The image refuses to fade, leaving no room for the possibility of imagination. I wonder the unsettling question, grappling with the doubt planted by Castiel's words—was it a dream?
With resignation, I run my hands over my sweaty face, feeling the beads of perspiration on my hairline. The dampness clings to my palms. "Where did you go?"
"Even a man needs to take a trip to the toilet every now and then," he replies, raking a hand through his hair. "I swear, if someone had entered, I would have heard the door creak."
I cast a shadow over the doubts and nod, slumping back in the cell. A moment of quietness settles between us, the air heavy with unspoken thoughts.
With weakness, I let my head slump against the cold bars, feeling sweat coldly drip off the curve of my nose, a reminder of the stifling atmosphere.
As I drift into a half-conscious state, Castiel becomes as still as death at the approaching footsteps in the distance.
I hear him crouch beside me, and take my chin harshly between his rough fingers. "Don't be a fool, keep your mouth in check, or you'll pay the price," he coldly repeats, his words a hushed warning.
I'm about to question the repetition, my dry lips parting, but my breath seems to escape my lungs when more feet around the cell.
The distant jingle of keys breaks the silence, and my gaze fixates on the figure.
The black boots draw nearer, the rhythm steady and purposeful. Castiel's caution echoes in my mind as I slowly lift my head, blinking to clear my vision.
The shadowy figure comes into clearer view, revealing Atticus's face obscured by the dim light. The keys jangle again, a teasing remark of freedom just out of reach. I press myself against the bars, fear coursing through me like a current.
Atticus slips the key into the lock.
The door creaks open, and the dim light spills into the cell, momentarily blinding me. I squint against the sudden brightness, my heart racing.
Castiel, from the other side of the bars, remains unnervingly silent.
Atticus's dark figure steps forward, and I catch a glimpse of a twisted smile on his face, a sinister glint in his eyes. "It seems like the scent of blood is becoming a regular here," he says, crouching next to me. A cold, predatory edge taints his voice. "She's deathly cold." Then follows a dark, callous laugh. "I suppose the cell is turning out to be just as delightful as I hoped it would be."