Damaged Goods

A cool, wet cloth on my skin woke me jarringly from my sleep, and I recoiled in fear. Darkness filled my vision as I waited for my eyes to grow accustomed to the limited light. My fists were clenched against my legs, ready to react.

I was cowering in the corner of the dark cell, my body tight and sore. My limbs refused to move as cramp locked down hard on each muscle sending searing pain through me.

After I had passed out from the torture session with Deakin, it seemed someone had moved me to a smaller prison cell than my last, with only one large steel door as the only entry and exit.

A small, white gown covered the wounds on my stomach but the cuts on my arms were visible. The red, raw puckered slashes were oozing, as the shrouded person gently washed away the dried blood that was caked on my skin. I looked away, disgusted by the sight of my own body. I was disfigured and ugly. I was damaged goods.

I looked up into their face and saw the bright, blue eyes. My stomach tightened as