24 Years Old
The walls of my cell have become both a torment and a twisted comfort. They are rough, cold stone, unyielding and lifeless. Compared to the places I’ve lived before, this is by far the worst. Even the tiniest bedrooms I once called home offered me something: warmth, a bed, even a small semblance of dignity. Here, there’s nothing but dirt and despair.
The cell is devoid of any softness, just hard stone that leeches warmth from my body. There are no windows, only a crude hole in the brickwork covered with metal bars, allowing a weak, pale light to filter in. The air is damp and smells faintly of mildew and rot. Straw on the floor serves as both my bed and my blanket. The damp, prickly material is far from comforting, but it’s more than the prisoners here receive.
I’ve had to adapt to this life, but I know I’ll never truly accept it. Before coming here, I thought Wes, Dolton, and Alex were monsters. But now, I can see the difference—they cared, even if they took my choices from me. There was still a glimmer of humanity in them.
Here, I am nothing. Less than an animal. I am used, beaten, and discarded for the amusement of others. The pack here treats me like trash, a thing to be stepped on and tossed aside. Even Richard, for all his cruelty, at least allowed me some basic respect. I had clothes, a bed, and small luxuries like makeup and jewelry. I didn’t realize how much those things mattered until they were stripped away.
Here, I have no toiletries, no sanitary items. I’m allowed to bathe once a week, and even that is a degrading ritual—forced to scrub myself in the freezing lake under the watchful eyes of guards. There are no showers, no baths. Just ice-cold water and shame. I can’t even remember how it feels anymore to have hot running water.
They’ve stripped me of my dignity, reducing me to something less than human. Some days, I feel like an animal, and perhaps that’s their goal.
The faint light filtering through the bars tells me it’s five o’clock in the morning. The sun hasn’t risen yet, but my day must begin. I drag myself up, my muscles sore from the cold and the hard stone floor, and make my way to the pack house.
The pack house is a massive structure, its grandeur a stark contrast to the squalor of my cell. High ceilings and polished floors give it an air of authority and wealth, but to me, it feels hollow and oppressive. The kitchen is large, filled with industrial appliances and enough room to cook for hundreds. It should feel warm, inviting, but the air is icy with tension, the silence heavy as I begin my work.
I gather the supplies for breakfast, moving quickly and efficiently. The pack’s singles and those whose partners are away will eat here, which means I need to prepare enough food for at least two hundred. Sometimes couples come as well, just to add to my workload. The task is grueling, but I’ve learned that mistakes are punished swiftly and severely.
If I cook too much, I’m accused of wasting food and beaten for my carelessness. If I don’t cook enough, the Betas and other high-ranking pack members take out their anger on me in ways far worse than physical punishment. Last time Beta Jonas didn’t eat, I regretted it more than any bruise or lash.
I aim for more than enough, even knowing it’s a trap. Sometimes, they deliberately eat less just to ensure there’s food left over—an excuse to punish me.
After hours of cooking, the kitchen begins to fill with the pack members. The men and women shove past me as if I’m invisible, their chatter loud and carefree. I place large platters of food on the tables, careful not to meet anyone’s eyes.
“Move it, mutt!” Beta Noah snarls, shoving me hard. The force sends me tumbling backward, and my head smacks against the corner of the counter with a sharp crack. Pain blooms instantly, but the laughter that follows cuts deeper.
“Where she belongs,” Gamma Selene sneers, her voice dripping with malice.
I swallow the lump in my throat and force myself to stand. Fighting back would mean death—I know that. Instead, I straighten my back, brush off the dirt, and return to my duties.
The rest of the day is a blur of cleaning, scrubbing, and degrading tasks. Each room in the pack house takes hours to clean, and I save Beta Noah’s for last. It’s always the worst. He seems to take a sick pleasure in leaving his room in the most revolting state possible, knowing I’ll be the one forced to clean it.
Today is no different. The air reeks of sweat and sex, used condoms littering the floor. I bite back my disgust and focus on the task, thankful that, for once, I wasn’t the one he dragged to his bed.
By the time I finish, it’s nearly ten p.m., and I’m bone-tired. My hands are raw from scrubbing, my body aching from the constant work. This day feels endless, like so many before it, and I know tomorrow will bring more of the same.
