(no subject)
She wasn't seeing much with her eyes. Caked with blood and swollen from the beatings, there wasn't much worth seeing anyways.
She wasn't saying much with her voice. No one responded to her weak pleas, growing fewer and fewer by the day, and her throat turned raspy from disuse, as if she was perpetually in a state of having just woken up.
She wasn't feeling much with anything.
Alas, she had retreated inside herself. It had been over a month since she had been demoted to this chamber, chained and beaten like an unwanted dog. Every time she woke up it was the same room, with the same sounds, same smell, same sheets, sodden with blood, on her hard cot. There was nothing new worth being aware of here.
At least she wasn't alone. Someone always came into her room, five times a day, a new cronie every time. She new nothing of their croaked language other than tone of voice, yet they still spoke to her as if she would magically understand and respond. They came in, crooning and smacking their weapon of choice into the other hand. Humanoid figures with no heart, they beat her until they were satisfied or until she passed out. Recently the latter happened more often than the former, but she only felt apathy. The pain itself even seemed distant, automatically taking a backburner to what she had on her mind at the moment. She knew the torture hurt, and that it was supposed to hurt more than it did, but she found out that if she acted like it didn't care or that something was more important, she almost forgot about it.
Forgetting about something doesn't erase it.
However, it was not the cronies that kept her company in this proverbial valley she traveled through. To keep her mind together, she relived every memory she had, starting from when she could first remember to the last happy memory she retained. Memories of the naive, carefree days where all that mattered were what she was wearing and whether she passed the final in a certain class. Memories of her family, friends, and various other people who came and went in her life. She dreamed of the days that she would turn and know that at least one friend would be standing behind her, physically and emotionally.
She missed them something terrible, and dry sobbed herself to sleep every night, having no way to dispel any tears through her blood sealed eyelids. She missed the nights she didn't dare cry for fear of what other people would think, especially her mother. Now she didn't care who saw her cry; no one in that building cared if she cried or not. She missed her best friend, who would, on the rare occasion she did let her emotions loose, hold her close, whispering words of comfort as she soaked her shirt with her pent up tears.
Most of all, she missed him. She missed the verbal sparring, the rush of feelings when he got in her face, the way her heart skipped a beat as he entered a room she was in, the shock that ran up and down her spine on the rare occasion they accidentally touched. With him, she couldn't be herself, and yet conversely, she could. An odd paradox she puzzled over many nights in her prison, but there was no other way to describe it in her mind.
And her mind was all she had now, so who was to say she was wrong?