Unbind me

· · ────── · ❈ · ────── · ·

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

━━━━༻❁༺━━━━

I glance around the room, my fingers still clutching the notebook as if it might vanish again. The space is small but leagues better than the asylum cell. There's a bed shoved against one wall, big enough for just one person, and a simple desk positioned under a small window. Sunlight streams through the glass, bathing the desk in a pale, golden glow. For a moment, it feels almost peaceful. Almost normal.

But I know better.

There's a low, constant hum in the air—not loud enough to pinpoint, but impossible to ignore. I can feel it vibrating through the walls, under the floor, thrumming just beneath my skin. It's not coming from the lights, which are off. I know exactly what it is: a camera. Watching me. Tracking my every move.

I shift uncomfortably, my eyes scanning the walls for its location. It doesn't take long to spot it, nestled high in a corner near the ceiling, almost blending into the pale gray paint. Just one camera. Not in the bathroom or the bedroom—only here, in this space. A small mercy, I suppose, but it doesn't make me feel any safer.

I set the notebook on the desk and walk to the window. The sunlight is a surprising relief, a rare touch of warmth that cuts through the cold, sterile environment. Outside, I can see the snowy landscape stretching into the horizon, a strange mix of rain and snow still falling in thin, icy sheets. The sky is heavy and gray, clouds pressing low to the earth like they might collapse at any moment.

I rest my hands on the windowsill, letting the chill seep into my skin. The world out there feels so close and yet impossibly far away, like I could almost touch it but never quite escape to it.

The desk beneath the window is bare, save for a single, battered chair pushed neatly against it. There's a small bookshelf beside it, there were no books. I run my fingers along the empty shelves, no dust, they must clean. It feels strange, not seeing books here. The bookshelf is out of place.

I cross the room to the bathroom door, pushing it open slowly. The bathroom is small but functional—white tiles, chrome fixtures, a shower, and a separate bathtub. Two sinks sit under a plain mirror, the counter spotless and devoid of anything personal. It's unnerving, how pristine everything is, like it's waiting for someone to leave their mark.

I turn back to the main room, letting the door swing shut behind me. The hum of the camera follows me like a shadow, a constant reminder that I'm never really alone here. I sit on the edge of the bed, sinking into the thin mattress, and let out a slow breath.

They're watching me, analyzing me, waiting for something. But what?

I glance at the notebook on the desk. It feels strange to have it back, like a piece of the asylum has followed me here. I don't know if Kenji meant it as a kindness or a cruel reminder, but either way, it's mine again.

I stare at the camera, narrowing my eyes. They think they're in control, that they have me under their thumb. But I can feel my powers stirring beneath the surface, growing stronger every day. They can watch me all they want, but they can't stop what's coming.

For now, I'll play along. I'll sit in this room, eat their food, and pretend to be docile. But I'm not.

I'm waiting. Watching. Counting the days.

Because one day, I'll be the one in control. And when that day comes, I'll make sure they never forget it.

I glance over at the bookshelf again. Empty. Not a single book in sight. The rows of bare wooden shelves feel almost mocking in their emptiness, as if to remind me that even in this slightly more "comfortable" cage, they've left nothing to truly occupy my mind.