The worst part isn’t the pain.
It’s not knowing where this ends.
My bare feet scrape against the unforgiving ground, stumbling over debris I can’t see. Shards of glass bite into my soles, but I barely flinch. The fear dulls everything except the pounding of my heart.
I brush against others—shoulders, arms, trembling bodies just as cold and terrified as mine. We’re herded together, packed tight like livestock, shuffling forward in a slow, miserable procession. A pack of pigs being led to slaughter.
But there’s warmth in numbers.
I must be somewhere near the centre, judging by the heat pressing in on all sides. It’s the only comfort we’re allowed—borrowed body heat from strangers who are just as doomed.
We walk for what feels like forever. Or maybe it’s only minutes. Time doesn’t exist here, just the sound of shuffling feet, muffled sobs, and the occasional barked order.
My senses are scrambled. I don’t know if we’ve gone up or down, if we’ve turned or stayed straight. The ground shiftsbeneath me, but I can’t tell if it’s stairs or just my own unsteady legs. All I know is that we’re moving. And wherever we’re going, it’s not anywhere we’ll come back from.
“Line them up,” a sharp voice commands.
In seconds, we’re shoved forward, backs pressed against something cold and unyielding. Metal, maybe. Concrete. It doesn’t matter. It’s not meant to comfort.
I can’t see what’s happening on either side of me, but I hear it—the sickening crack of wood against flesh, followed by muffled cries. Girls trying not to scream and failing miserably.
Footsteps echo around us—more than one set. Heavy boots pacing, circling, closing in. It’s impossible to tell where they are. They move like shadows, everywhere and nowhere all at once.
Then a pair of gloved hands grab me.
They yank my arms above my head, patting me down like I’m livestock at a county fair. A product to be inspected. Measured and claimed all in one.
I don’t speak. I don’t move.
Fear has welded my mouth shut.
I let them pull and prod, my skin crawling with every touch. My breath is shallow, my heart a drumbeat of panic.
“Up straight,” someone mutters near my ear.
Then—pain.
A sharp, searing sting lashes across my stomach, folding me forward with a gasp I can’t hold back. The welt blooms instantly, hot and angry, a brand of submission.
And still, I say nothing.
“These ones will do. The rest can go back,” the same clinical voice barks.
I don’t know which group I’ve been sorted into. And for a moment, I hope it’s the ones being sent back.
Back to rot.
Back to be disposed of.
At least that would be quick. Final.
But I’m pushed forward, herded into what feels like a smaller cluster. The shuffle begins again—feet dragging, bodies pressed close, the air thick with fear. The girl beside me is sobbing helplessly beneath her hood.
I reach out blindly, my fingers brushing against her arm beneath the binds of rope. I find her hand and squeeze—just once. Firm. Steady. A silent promise that she’s not alone.
It’s not much.
But it’s all I have to give.
