𝐒𝐓𝐑𝐄𝐄𝐓 𝐊𝐈𝐋𝐋𝐄𝐑 || 𝐉.𝐉𝐊 ✓

⊘ • ❺❼ • ⊘

𓆩・༺ ꔫ ༻・𓆪

The walk is painfully slow, and it reminds me of The Green Mile, in a way. Although the floors aren't green, I'm not in the clothes I would like to be, and the man escorting me isn't a guard doesn't mean it's not the same fate with different conditions.

I remember the first time I watched the movie, and I bawled myself to sleep, thinking of how unfair the world is and how ugly it can truly be.

Despite how the floors are a dirty gray, I'm wearing a wedding dress, and the man next to me isn't walking me towards my death, it might as well be the same as the movie. Only it's worse because I won't be granted death until I've gone through torture first.

This world has always been painful. No matter what angle it's viewed from it's horrid.

I want to say I'm wrong and say how these are bad people—and how the world isn't as bad as it seems, but I know better than that. Everyone does.

I may not have experienced too much in my short life, but I've experienced enough.

Even if I've never felt the death of a parent, I know the feeling of reaching them seem impossible, both physically and mentally. I may not have ever felt pain from a breakup before, but I know the feeling of having my heart ripped out of my chest from knowing I can't be with the person I love more than anything.

While I may not have experienced numerous situations, I have the maturity to understand, even without being in someone else's shoes.

Despite my lack of life experiences, I know what I'm about to go through. Some of these women have learned to live with it, accept it, and stop trying to find a way out.

For my sake, I hope I never become one of them. It's too easy to give in, and I've never been that way. If anything, I've always fought for everything in my life, and although my circumstances are more life-threatening, I won't let, no matter what happens, myself fall away and become a breeding machine.

My grip around the bouquet tightens, and the edges of the blades dig into my palm. I walk forward, ignoring the stares as I'm guided down the dark hall.

As I pass by people's rooms, I glance at the men holding their flashlights and see the expression of lust in their eyes when they stare at me. Not all of them, thankfully, but a good majority.

The women, the ones brave enough to make eye contact, express a face of sympathy when they look into my eyes. It's as if they see the inner innocence, what's left of it, and know as well as I do that the little spark in my eyes will soon be gone forever.

Children stare at me. Little girls move their heads upwards, glancing at my dress and my face with a look of excitement—one whispers how beautiful I am. I look at her and smile; it's a tight smile, but it's one she won't forget.

In the eyes of a child, life is beautiful and so are people. The little boys glance at us, not caring, and one tries to sneak back into the room. I wish I could sneak away, too.

My only hope is that if we're never found, these little boys don't turn out to be like their fathers.

"This way," the man mumbles next to me while we turn down the hall and make a left. The hall we now follow has fewer rooms, and no one is outside of the doors peering at us like the hall before.