I feel the metal scratch my skin. Every time I move, there is always the sound of something heavy dragging against the floor. My ears hurt. The sounds hurt my ears. My wrists are tied by metal chains. I am naked. In the enclosed space, the stale air kisses my skin, as it has done so for the past few days I have been here. My eyes are closed, but I can see a spark between the closed lids. I straighten my back. I feel my back muscles hurt, but only for a moment, and suddenly, the pain is gone once more, leaving me numb, feeling nothing.
I am alone. The mere thought makes me feel scared, vulnerable. However, this feeling is not new to me.
I haven’t eaten for days. I can feel my own stomach burn inside my body, aching for something to digest. I am sitting on the cold floor, my feet beside my thighs. I lean against the wall. The moment I move, there comes the sound of metal dragging across the floor again. I want to cover my ears, but I can’t. The metal binding my wrists are too heavy. I cannot even lift my hands up to my chin. In this dungeon, I am nothing but powerless.
I am cursed. Perhaps it is the reason why I am imprisoned here. My mother died in a fire. My father died with a stake through his chest. My mother might have been a witch. My father might have been a vampire. They told me those things. I grew up confused, confused of what to believe. The parents I know were not like that. My mother was kind. My father was caring.
I am hopeless. The feeling of cold bricks pushing against my back is almost the same as the feeling of my mother’s caring hands. The metal chains holding my wrists almost feel like my father’s reassuring grasp. I knew it was an illusion, but I cannot help myself. It is the only hope that remained in the darkness of the dungeon.
Tears begin to fill my eyes. They sting. As much as I want to wipe them, I am unable to. My shoulders begin to shake. Within just a few seconds, I am sure I am going to give in eventually.
I cry. I do not plan to stop unless I feel satisfied. My hands do not move. I let my tears flow. I let my tears dry. They fall on my thighs. They dry on my face. I must look like a mess; tears from the past days have remained on my face, and now dried tears are adding up. There is a brief moment when I wonder how my face may look like. It is a miracle that I even have the time to consider such thing.
I no longer know if it is day or night. I keep on losing track of time. It may not be of importance in my current situation, but it keeps my mind working; it keeps me busy. Time makes me think. It made me wonder: how many more days until I keep on living? How many more days before I die? Will I die today? tonight? tomorrow? If not, when? When will I be free of this imprisonment?
Time made me think of death. The thought of death keeps my mind working.
Anguish is such a magnificent thing.
I keep silent. My tears stop flowing. I pull my head back until the back of my head touches the brick wall. My back arches.
Slowly, I open my dry lips, and begin to sing.