Itchiness. 

Aching.

Exhaustion.

Hunger.

Those are the only things I can seem to focus on as I sit alone in this tiny room. I don't know how long I've been in here. There's no way for me to tell.

The dull aching in my stomach is making it hard for me to focus. I can't remember the last time I ate a meal. I know it was before Janson visited me, but how long ago was that? Hours? Days? Weeks?

I can feel an unbearable itchiness at the back of my neck, begging for me to break free of my restraints and scratch my skin, but even the thought of using my strength to try and break free exhausts me. The spot is tingling though, a thousand spiders crawling back and forth across my skin until I can find it in me to scratch them away.

I thought time was a difficult concept when I was locked in that cell, unable to know whether it was night or day, but at least I could roughly keep track of how many days it had been since WICKED had taken me. 

Here, however, that's not possible. I could be in here for days and not know it. There's no way to keep track of anything here. If I think it's morning, it could be the afternoon. If I think it's the afternoon, it could be the middle of the night. Time is a foreign concept; a thing of the past. It doesn't exist in this room, nor does it exist anywhere in this compound. I suppose they do this on purpose, though. Maybe it makes their prisoners go insane quicker. 

Whatever the reason is, I don't have the energy to think about any longer. I'm exhausted, my eyelids drooping closed with every passing moment. Every time I think I slip into the blissfulness of sleep, however, I become strangely conscious of the aching in my arms or the uncomfortable itch spreading across the back of my neck.

There's nothing to do to pass the time except stare at the wall in front of me. I tried calling for help, but I should know by now that it will not come. Not here. Not in this compound. I tried to find a flaw in the handcuffs, something that would mean my freedom, but it was only a waste of time. 

There are no cracks or holes in the wall to count; no faces unintentionally cured into the concrete. There's no texture to the wall at all. No imperfections. No flaws. No mistakes.

I suppose this was done on purpose. WICKED doesn't like mistakes. I suppose one too many mistakes have made them learn their lesson. Mistakes mean failure to them. There's no such thing as failure here. They destroy it before it can bloom into something worse. Something fatal.

🪐🪐🪐

"Venus?" I hear her ask in a timid voice before she even steps foot into the room. I don't answer, watching in silence as she walks over the threshold, wincing when she sees me. "Oh, God, Venus. What happened?"

"You." I spit before I can stop myself, bitterness lacing my voice. She stops a few feet away from me, awkwardly still under my intense glare. "Are you happy?" I sneer.

"I-I didn't mean for any of this to happen." She stammers, avoiding eye contact with me. "You know that. Somewhere inside of you, I know you know that."

I glare at her for a moment before saying, "This is your fault Teresa." Her name leaves the bitter taste of betrayal on my tongue. "Everything that's happened to me- that's going to happen to me- is your fault. Same with Minho. Same with Aris and Sonya. Same with every other person WICKED captured that night. It's all your fault." I can see the tears forming in her eyes. 

"I-it was the right thing to do." She says, more to herself than me, almost as if she's trying to convince herself of something that, morally, she knows was wrong. A silence passes over us. She fiddles nervously with her pristine white lab coat before taking a deep breath, recomposing herself. "Just tell them what they want to know and all of this will be over."

"I can't give them information I don't have." I say through gritted teeth, fighting down the anger bubbling up inside of me. I watch her face fall, her gaze flicking to something to the left of me. I'm assuming it's a camera mounted on the ceiling behind me, watching me; studying me. It's safe to assume that there isn't anywhere in this compound where I'll be safe from their eyes. 

"You don't know where the Right Arm is?" She asks, her voice softer. I shake my head sharply, keeping my gaze sharp on her. "You don't know where Thomas is?" Another shake of the head. "I guess I just thought he would've told you."

"And why is that?" I snap, a faint wave of curiosity flooding my body. Before Teresa can answer, a guard enters the room. Teresa jumps at the sudden noise of the door banging open, letting out a short, quiet cry of surprise. 

The guard doesn't even glance at her, walking right up to me and pulling something out of one of the chest pockets in his suit. I struggle against the restraints, trying to pull my body free of the handcuffs and away from him. Despite my best efforts, it isn't enough.

He jabs a vile of a thick, murky, brownish liquid into the side of my neck. Teresa lets out a small cry of protest, but her voice fades away as she hears her name called from somewhere outside of the room. I watch her walk out, glancing over her shoulder at me one last time before leaving me with the guard. My eyes begin to droop closed.

My voice is sluggish when I whisper, "coward." I can barely hear myself as the word leaves my mouth. My tongue is too big for my mouth and my throat is too dry to swallow my saliva. The world is blurring around me, the guard in front of me turning into three before fading back to one. 

I can feel myself slipping away into the once blissfulness of sleep; the safety and comfort of my dreams. But I don't want to go. I don't want to fall asleep anymore. I try to force my eyes to stay awake, but it's no use against the drug. The world is spinning around me. Everything I can see doubles, triples, and doubles again before morphing back into one, singular object. It happens over and over again until I can't bear it anymore. I allow sleep to overcome me, knowing full well that even my dreams aren't safe anymore. 

Not in the hands of WICKED.