Tyrant

(𝟻) 𝚃𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚃𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚌𝚑𝚎𝚛𝚘𝚞𝚜 𝙻𝚒𝚗𝚎

I stare upwards at the chipped ceiling, my eyes unmoving, my body motionless under a thin, scratchy blanket.

Not thinking, not feeling. Just staring.

A single floor lamp near me splays eerie, sinister shadows across the aged wall. I ignore each shadow, each curve of blackness that threatens to swallow me whole. The dim bulb flickers every minute or so, burying me in darkness for a few seconds before flicking on again.

It seemed that bulb was dying out. 

Like me.

Another wave of darkness abruptly drowns me as the bulb yet again goes out; an ocean of shadows encompass me as I lay alone, silent, numb. 

Numb. As though I had not been violently, excruciatingly struck in the shoulder by child who wielded a harrowing weapon.

A child, who is thought to be the epitome of innocence and purity, affection and joy. 

A child had shot me .

I mindlessly run my fingers over the should-be wound. A small kernel of shock sparks in the back of my numb mind at the absence of pain. Numbing medication? 

The apathy in me forcefully shoves every single thought away as the bulb switches back on again, faintly illuminating old, thick, curtains hanging wearily against that aged wall. The musty scent of dust and grime floats around my nose, indicating that it has not been cleaned in a long while. 

I have been laying here for some time. 

Minutes, hours, days, I was not aware.

And I did not particularly care where I was as I heard a slam from outside the room I was wasting away in. Muted voices hummed outside.

The mattress my body lies upon is anything but comfortable, anything but safe, as a bed should be. No, it is hard and rigid and unwelcoming.

Good. Discomfort to keep the numbness away, discomfort to feel something. 

Vaguely, memories of dire agony whip through my tired mind. A burning fire in my left shoulder, warm blood cascading down my body, and the distraught face of a female. 

Raeyan. 

Raeyan brought me here.

Or I have been kidnapped.

The second option is highly unlikely. 

I look upwards again at that chipped ceiling, and feel the desolate tornado of emotions slowly trickle near: the air around me feels tight and dead. 

The exhaustion. The fear. The hopelessness. 

Why? Why? 

I don't want to live like this. Forever on the run, afraid, alone.

Always scared. 

I don't want to be a hero. I just want to survive.

I want my mama.

I squeeze my eyes shut to the point of pain, willing, begging, those heartbreaking thoughts to leave me alone. The thoughts of desperation and loneliness and distrust, the thoughts of my mother's gentle embraces and loving kisses. 

Memories of all the friends I had left behind, my family and house, my toys...

My entire self. 

I am no longer that innocent, festive child that relished school and adored her friends and family, that child that had a silly obsession with her mother's jewelry.