Patterns

Time stopped behaving normally.

I didn’t know what day it was. Morning and night blurred together, measured only by the soft opening of the door and the quiet appearance of food on the table.

Always the same meals.

Always warm.

Always untouched by the person who brought them.

A pattern.

The man if I could even call him that never spoke unless I did. Even then, his answers were minimal. He avoided eye contact, like he wasn’t allowed to see me too clearly.

That, too, was a pattern.

I started counting. Not minutes actions.

The door opened twice a day. Once in the morning. Once at night. The lights dimmed slightly when it was late, brighter when it was early. Someone was controlling even that.

They wanted me aware. Not lost. Not unconscious.

Kept.

I tested the rules carefully.

The first time, I moved the chair closer to the door. No reaction.

The second time, I left the water untouched. It was replaced within an hour.

Someone noticed.

The third time, I spoke without being asked.

“Who’s in charge here?”

The man froze for half a second.

Half a second was enough.

He recovered quickly, his face neutral again. “You don’t need to know that.”

But his hand tightened around the tray he was holding.

A crack.

I watched him more closely after that. His shoes were always clean. His movements rehearsed. He never stayed longer than necessary, like he was being timed.

Like he was afraid of making a mistake.

One night, the door opened later than usual.

I was sitting on the bed, pretending not to watch, when I felt it the shift in the air. Tension. The man entered faster this time, less composed.

“Is something wrong?” I asked quietly.

He ignored me, setting the tray down too hard. The glass rattled.

That wasn’t part of the pattern.

“Did I do something?” I tried again.

Silence.

As he turned to leave, I saw it.

A phone in his back pocket. New. Expensive. The screen lit up for a second as he moved.

A name flashed before it went dark.

I didn’t see it clearly but I saw enough to know it wasn’t his.

Someone else was calling the shots.

The door locked behind him.

I exhaled slowly, my hands shaking not from fear this time, but from awareness.

This place had rules.

The man had orders.

And whoever was behind this was close enough to interfere but far enough to stay hidden.

That meant control.

But control always slips.

And when it does, it leaves fingerprints.

I lay back, staring at the ceiling again, the same thought repeating in my mind...

If I was being kept this carefully,

then I wasn’t disposable.

And that terrified me more than anything else.

...----------------...

Everyone talks about being strong, but no one tells you how lonely strength feels when you had no choice but to grow it alone.

I hope you like it. I’m giving it my best this time.

I

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