Unbind me

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Seraphina Sterling
"my life was never about living, it was always about surviving"

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The rain and snow fall together in a chaotic dance outside my small, reinforced window. It's been two weeks since Adam joined Juliette in her cell, and the rhythm of this place feels even more suffocating than before. Time blurs in here. I can't tell if it's day or night anymore. The dim, flickering light above my head is my only measure, and it does little to comfort me. Outside, the gray sky shifts between storms of rain and snow, a battle between two seasons, as indecisive as everything in this world.

I press my forehead against the icy wall, staring out through the tiny gap at the flakes of snow melting against the glass. It's strange how something so beautiful can exist out there while I rot in here. The snowflakes fall softly, silently, but the rain drowns them out with its relentless assault. The sound is constant—a steady, rhythmic drumming that feels like the pulse of this prison.

Adam. His name echoes in my mind like a foreign sound I can't quite decipher. I don't know him, not really, but his arrival stirred something in this place, a ripple in the stagnant waters. He's loud in ways that aren't physical, his presence filling the silence even when he says nothing. I can hear his voice sometimes, muffled through the walls, low and steady, trying to coax something out of Juliette. She doesn't talk much, at least not loudly enough for me to hear, but there are moments when her laughter—sharp, surprised, fleeting—breaks through the monotony. It startles me every time, a sound so foreign in this prison that it feels out of place, like an intruder.

I don't know how she does it. How she lets him in. How she even lets herself laugh. I haven't laughed in years. The sound feels unnatural to me now, something I'm not sure my body remembers how to do.

Two weeks, and still, I find myself wondering about him, about why he's here. There are no new prisoners. It's a rule, an unspoken certainty. This place is a dead end, a final stop for people like us—broken, abandoned, forgotten. But Adam doesn't seem broken, not in the way the rest of us are. He looks at this place like it's a challenge, like he's not afraid. I can't decide if that makes him brave or stupid.

I sit back down on the cold floor, pulling the thin blanket tighter around my shoulders. The rain intensifies, hammering against the building like it's trying to break in. I let my head fall back against the wall, closing my eyes, listening to the storm outside. It's easier than thinking, easier than wondering what they're doing to Juliette in there. I've heard the screams—hers and others—and I know better than to ask questions I can't answer.

It's been two weeks since the last time I saw her up close. Two weeks since I caught a glimpse of her face, pale and drawn, her eyes hollow but fierce. Two weeks since I heard her footsteps in the hallway, walking with Adam toward the showers. I remember the way she walked, stiff and guarded, like every step cost her something. I wonder if she's changed since then, if Adam has softened her or made her stronger. I wonder if he's broken through the walls she's built around herself.

I look at the tiny corner where I keep the stolen diary, tucked away beneath the mattress. I haven't written in it much these past two weeks. There's nothing new to write, no fresh horrors or revelations. Just the same endless cycle of waiting, eating, sleeping—if I'm lucky—and listening. Always listening. The walls here are thin, but not thin enough to give me the full story. Just fragments, just whispers. Enough to drive me mad with curiosity, but not enough to satisfy it.

The sound of footsteps pulls me from my thoughts. Heavy boots, deliberate and sharp, echoing down the hallway. My body tenses automatically, a reflex I've developed after months of this. I know better than to move, better than to draw attention to myself. I hear the guards stop at Juliette's door, the familiar sound of keys jingling, the low murmur of voices I can't quite make out. I wait, holding my breath, listening for her scream, for anything that might tell me what's happening.