Chapter 4: The Deepest Pit

Regina’s POV

Five months.

That’s how long I’ve been locked up in this gilded hellhole. The room looks pretty enough with polished floors, crisp sheets, fake orchids by the window. But it’s just a mask. A luxury cage. I hear laughter outside sometimes, other patients walking around, talking freely, but not me. I’m not a patient here. I’m a prisoner.

The door is always locked. And when I bang on it while screaming, sobbing, begging to be let out, I get the same answer.

Fists. Kicks. A boot in my shin so hard I still can’t bend my leg right. I dropped to the floor that day, hands over my belly, whispering, It’s okay, baby. Just hold on. And after that? I stopped screaming. I stopped fighting.

But the silence didn’t stop the cruelty.

They send addicts into my room, let them leer and sneer. One man said, “So this is the princess locked in the tower, huh?” Another called me spoiled garbage. I spat at him. “You’re a joke,” I hissed. “At least I didn’t ruin my own life.” He lunged, but the guards pulled him out. Next time, they didn’t bother interfering.

The food they bring is barely edible. Cold, lumpy, stinking of grease. Pregnancy nausea makes it worse. I gag just looking at it. Once I decided not to eat at all. Hunger strike, I thought. Protest. But they didn’t even care. Just stopped bringing food for two days straight.

If it weren’t for Ana, the only kind soul in this place, I think I’d be dead by now. She sneaks me real food. Crackers. Vitamins. “I shouldn’t be doing this,” she whispers, eyes darting toward the camera. “But you don’t deserve this.”

I don’t know how she knows. Maybe she’s been where I am.

I’ve lost so much weight. My ribs show. My hair is falling out in clumps, clogging the tiny drain in the corner. I stare at myself in the mirror and barely recognize the girl staring back.

Maxwell did this.

Morgana, that snake, twisted the knife, but he handed it to her. My own husband, who I gave everything to, locked me away because it was easier than facing the truth.

The same way my adoptive father used to “discipline” me into silence, Maxwell now punishes me for not playing his perfect wife.

My hatred is growing faster than this baby inside me. Morgana. Maxwell. Every single coward in this place.

I used to cry. Now I just count the days.

The only thing keeping me alive was the child growing inside me.

Even now, with my body so weak I could barely stand, my hand would instinctively drift to my belly, fingers pressing gently, protectively. My baby. 

The devastation of having my unborn child go through this hell alongside me was not lost on me.

But despite it all, my baby was still here, stubbornly developing despite everything. The only ounce of hope left in this hellhole.

Ana slipped into my room one night with a bundle of fabric and whispered, “Don’t worry. Here. Bigger size. You’re starting to show.”

I clutched the uniform to my chest, my voice barely a rasp. “Thank you.”

She gave a sad smile. “I don’t agree with what they’re doing.”

Neither did I. But it didn’t matter. Nobody listened.

The others treated me like a prisoner. Like trash. Nobody would care if I dropped dead today, but I couldn’t do that. . I had to stay strong for my baby. I had to get us out.

And then the chance came.

It was a male staff member, the one who always strutted around like he owned the place. He came in late, muttering about a schedule mix-up. I watched him carefully. Waited. Then, as he turned his back to set down the tray, I lunged. My fingers found the keyring at his waist. I snatched it, shoved him back into the room, and slammed the door behind me.

He banged on the inside like a lunatic. “You bitch! Open the door!”

I didn’t stop running.

Down the hallway. Past the reception. I could see the exit-

“Hey!” someone shouted.

Two guards appeared out of nowhere. Before I could scream, they had me. One of them slammed me into the wall so hard I tasted blood.

“No! Let me go! Please!”

They didn’t care. I kicked, bit, scratched, did everything I could, but it was useless. They dragged me back to my room, strapped me to the bed.

“I said she needs to calm down,” one muttered.

The needle went into my arm.

Cold fire in my veins.

Then came the darkness.

After that, they started injecting me regularly. I didn’t know what it was. I didn’t want to know. At first, I screamed every time they came in, begged them not to. I cried until my voice cracked. Fought until my wrists were raw from the straps.

Then something changed.

One night, I found myself waiting for the needle.

A week later, I didn’t even protest. I just turned my head and closed my eyes.

And then the dreams started. Terrifying. Surreal. Filled with colors I couldn’t name, sounds I couldn’t understand. I saw my baby crying in a pool of blood. I saw Morgana laughing with my husband, both of them raising a glass.

“You ruined her, Max,” she’d say in the vision, licking her lips. “But I finished the job.”

I woke up screaming.

Other times, I forgot where I was. Forgot who I was.

Then, suddenly, like a gust of cold air slicing through fog, clarity would hit me. I’d see the marks on my arms. The weight I’d lost. My brittle hair falling out. The smell of rot and chemicals. I’d remember how I got here.

I was Regina. I had a baby inside me. And I needed to escape.

But each time that clarity came, it felt more distant. More fragile.

Like I was slipping under water, and no one would ever come to pull me out.

I’m starting to feel like something's really wrong with me.