Out of the Shadows // Sebastian Sallow

Chapter Twenty-Eight

*Warning: This chapter contains scenes of torture, deals with mental health crises and has heavy emotions.*

I didn't go willingly. I hadn't realized how much my inner power was stunted or revived by my emotions. I was completely out of control.

I thrashed and screamed. Lightening would randomly strike down from my ancient magic, luckily, I didn't kill anyone, but they would cower. Good.

And then my emotions would crack. I would sob and I was so weak. My powers totally gone. That's when the beatings would happen.

Until the rage would build up again and the lightning would strike, I laughed at their cowering faces and startled yelps.

Once we reached the prison again, they ushered me to yet another new room. Where I wouldn't hold a stupid sign with some ancient runes and numbers on it and get my picture taken. So, they held me down, laid the plaque on my chest while I tried to squirm away and took the picture from above.

I saw it where they stuck it on the wall with the others. I looked positively evil in it. My eyes were red. Not bloodshot red. Not green anymore. They were red. I had red eyes. And my whole face was covered in bruises, scrapes and one long, deep scratch down the side of my left cheek that I don't remember getting.

Looking at my new identity as a criminal, I smiled. The prophecy was true. I am evil. I accepted it right then. Why fight what was inevitable?

After that, I was held down again, my arm extended over a short table and manacled to it while they painfully carved that same number from the plaque into my forearm. It burned. I screamed. I somehow shattered the table I was manacled to and punched the guard in the face mid-carve so they beat me for several hours until I was barely conscious, and they finished the mark.

The spindly chair room again. But this time I was bound. Head to toe. My ball and chain in place. Arms stretched tightly behind me. A metal half mask over the bottom half of my face also held my neck so I couldn't turn or bite or scream or talk. Just barely breathe. I sat there. I didn't even sleep. I just sat there. Breathing.

--

Soon enough, the door was opening.

"...on the bottom floor. She's too powerful and erratic for the juvenile section. Once she's seventeen, in a few months we'll move her to the max section of the prison. Can't wait to see how hostile she remains once the dementors have her." A chuckle sounded.

"Yes ma'am. Taking her now." The voice entered.

"Get up, pathetic witch. Time for your new home."

I was prodded constantly and barely able to drag my heavy ball by the chain down a hall, a long descending hall. The manacle digging into my ankle with every pull. I could feel blood trickling over my foot.

The ball started to roll slightly and then I was struggling to keep up with it. It kept dragging me down, down, down lower and lower underground, slipping on the uneven slanted floor several times. I kept trying to swear. Curse them. Spit at them. Kick, fight, scream! I couldn't do anything.

As I was "hostile," they were putting me down here to teach me a lesson.

It was dark. I couldn't see anything. The guards escorting me were careful to keep their lighted wands only for them, so I was practically blind stumbling around in the dark.

"Storm's coming." One guard said casually to the other.

The other chuckled softly. "Should make for an interesting first night."

"Stop. Turn left." The first spoke again.

I did and the clanging sounds of a metal, barred door opening were ringing in my ears.