Chapter 15

'Crying is a way your eyes speak when your mouth can't explain how broken your heart is.'

Yerenica

The walls are damp. The air is thick, suffocating, too cold and too warm all at once. It claws at my skin, sinks into my bones, settles in the marrow of my existence. The darkness in this cellar isn't just the absence of light; it is a living, breathing thing, wrapping its hands around my throat, pressing down on my ribs until my lungs ache. My arms are wrapped around my knees, fingers digging into the fabric of my dress, nails pressing into the delicate skin beneath. I cannot cry. There is nothing left in me to cry. Instead, I sit in this void of silence, listening to the sound of my own heartbeat, steady, weak, persistent.

I have always believed that silence is merciful, that there is safety in stillness. But here, in this pit, silence is a blade against my throat, a whisper of every unspoken horror waiting in the shadows. When i was 7 my mother had told me that fear is like water, it seeps into every crevice, it drowns you when you least expect it. I understand now. I am drowning. I am a shipwreck, and the waves of my own terror pull me under. My body trembles, whether from fear or cold, I no longer know. I do not pray, I do not believe in salvation. There is no mercy for girls like me.

Hours stretch like lifetimes. I count my breaths, trying to tether myself to something real, something tangible. But time is a cruel thing. It does not move for the condemned. My stomach aches, empty and hollow, a gnawing pain that curls at the edges of my consciousness. I am tired. My limbs are heavy, but sleep will not come. My mind is too loud, screaming against the quiet, filling the room with ghosts of memories I do not want to remember. I see my mother's face, blurred at the edges, hear the echo of a lullaby I barely remember. She used to run her fingers through my hair, whispering words I never truly understood.

Why did you die?

And now? Now I am nothing but a discarded thing, a piece of debris left to rot in the dark.

The door creaks open. My head jerks up, the dim light from the corridor cutting through the oppressive darkness. Two men step inside, their figures casting long, grotesque shadows against the stone walls. They are speaking in Turkish, their voices thick with hesitation and something else, something far worse.

"Bu iyi bir fikir değil."

(This is not a good idea.)

The other one snorts. "Kimse fark etmeyecek. Zaten bir işe yaramaz."

(No one will notice. She's a waste anyway.)

The first man hesitates, his gaze flickering to me. "Bize dokunmamamız söylendi."

(We were told not to touch her.)

The other man laughs, his eyes crawling over me like insects burrowing beneath my skin. "Siktir et, biraz eğlenemez miyiz?"

(Fuck it, can't we have a little fun?)

A shudder wracks my body as he steps closer. I shrink back, pressing myself against the cold stone, my heart hammering against my ribs. His fingers reach out, fingertips brushing my cheek, trailing down my neck. Something inside me snaps.

"No!" My voice is hoarse, raw. I slap his hand away, my breath coming in short, sharp gasps.

His expression darkens. The moment of amusement is gone, replaced by something colder, something cruel. His hand swings fast, cracking across my face. My head jerks to the side, pain blooming hot and sharp along my cheekbone. My ears ring, but I don't stop fighting. I claw at him, kick at him, desperation bleeding into my movements.

He curses and grabs me by the hair, yanking my head back so hard my scalp burns. "Seni inatçı kaltak."

(You stubborn bitch.)

His fist drives into my stomach. The force of it steals my breath, my vision going white with pain. Another punch, then another. I collapse onto the floor, gasping, curling in on myself. He doesn't stop. His boot slams into my ribs once, twice, I lose count. Every impact sends fresh agony through my body, each blow carving new wounds into the wreckage of me.

I think of my mother again. The way she used to hum when she cooked. The way her laughter had once filled a home I can barely recall. The warmth of her arms around me, safe, loved. Would she cry if she saw me now? Would she cradle my bruised body and whisper apologies into my hair? Or would she turn away, ashamed of the daughter who could not save herself?

My head swims. My body feels foreign, detached, as if it belongs to someone else. Blood drips from my lips, splattering onto the dirt floor. A final kick to my stomach forces a strangled cry from my throat.

"Yeter! Aptal mısın?!" The other man yells, grabbing his arm and dragging him back.

(Enough! Are you dumb?!)

The man spits on me, the warm wetness splattering against my cheek. Then they are gone. Footsteps fade down the corridor, the door slamming shut behind them, plunging me back into darkness.

I do not move. I do not breathe.

I am nothing.

A shattered thing lying on the cold, unfeeling ground.

Pain ebbs and flows, dull and sharp in turns, a symphony of suffering playing in my bones. My ribs scream with every shallow breath, the throbbing ache a reminder of what I am, what has been done to me. I can still feel his hands on my skin, still hear the sickening crack of bone meeting flesh, still taste the metallic tang of my own blood on my tongue. The silence is no longer just a blade, it is a grave, swallowing me whole.

A sob trembles on my lips, but I swallow it down. Crying is a weakness I cannot afford. Crying will not change the bruises blooming across my body, will not undo the way my soul feels splintered, raw. I close my eyes and let the darkness cradle me, a cruel mockery of comfort.

The minutes stretch into hours, or perhaps it is days. Time means nothing in a place like this. My body is weak, broken, but my mind... my mind refuses to die. Somewhere, deep within the fractured pieces of me, a flicker of something stirs. It is not hope. Hope is for fools. But it is something else - something sharp, something waiting.

I will die here.

like this.

The thought makes me laugh. And soon the laughter dissolves into tears as i lay there crying my heart out.

Thoughts?