Freya Arsov sits on top of a world of diamonds and sports cars. Her father is a billionaire, head of a world-renown company, her mother, an esteemed lawyer. She attends the most prestigious boarding school in England. She has four amazing best frien...
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COLDNESS WRAPPED ITS ICY TALONS AROUND Freya's arms and squeezed.
Her first instinct was to scream. And she did.
But not a sound came out.
Her eyes adjusted in their fear to the white walls around her. Cushioned and unsuspecting, floor to ceiling.
She hated them.
She wanted to throw herself at them until she bled, if only to stray from that fucking white colour.
Her lungs felt heavy in her chest, her heart was racing. Her thoughts were not her own.
The coldness was still there, except now it was more obvious to her that it wasn't cold at all, but a numbness. It stemmed from her hands. Padded leather wrapped around her wrists keeping her down on the floor. She couldn't move them.
Why would they do that?
There was a clicking sound. It pulled her like a fishing hook from her melee.
Then a section of the padded room sailed open. A door. Her body acted before her thoughts could and she was thrashing toward that opening, the faint sliver of a dark corridor, the brush of air, the sounds. Eventhe scraping words of spoken Russian as those outside chatted in hushed tones.
"Now, now," came the Russian words of the man clad in white as he entered. His glasses sat low on the bridge of his nose, thick-framed and old fashioned. "We have established this. Violence will not get you drugs, Ms. Arsova."
That tone sent her into an even further state of violence. She thrashed harder against the bonds, eyes like daggers upon the Russian doctor.
It wasn't too different from how one would speak to a child, but none of the warmth that accompanied such interactions shone in the man's eyes. Clinical. Cold. His lips pursed downward at that as the door snapped shut behind him.
Freya was freezing from the inside out. But now, she welcomed the bite of the cold. It made her sharp. It made her hate. She needed it to survive beneath that surgical stare, she needed it to survive the bleeding.
"It appears your time in solitary has not affected your behaviour," observed the man in that same chiding, unfriendly tone. Freya had never hated the sound of her father's language more than then. The dark look in his eyes made her want to claw them out.
Her response was a round of cursing. Some of them weren't even real words, not in Russian, not in English, more like hateful babble from a dark part of her head.
