86
I turned back toward the room I’d come from, expecting to see something, anything, but there was nothing. No sign of Adeline, no sign of anyone. I was alone.
“Adeline?” I called out, my voice shaking. It sounded strange, like it didn’t belong to me. The echo bounced back at me, small and weak. The hallway stayed silent, empty, stretching farther than I could see. My legs felt weak, but I kept walking, my heart racing as fear clawed its way into my chest. Where was I? Where had she brought me?
Down the hallway, I picked up the faintest sound of music. It was so low, almost unnoticeable, like a whisper you couldn’t quite catch. I paused, straining to hear, and there it was again, soft and haunting, like it was coming from another time entirely.
The melody felt familiar, but I couldn’t place it. It had that echoing quality, like a remastered version of something old. The notes floated gently, accompanied by the faint crackle of static, as if it were being played on an old vinyl record. A piano started first, the chords heavy and deliberate, then came a voice, smooth, deep, and soulful. It sounded like Sam Cooke’s "A Change is Gonna Come" but slower, stripped down, as though it were weighed down by the passage of time.
The words were muffled at first, and I caught only fragments:
"I was born by the river… in a little tent…"
The hum of the song swayed between soft longing and unshakable determination. It was beautiful but carried an ache that made my chest tighten.
I couldn’t stop walking. My fingers brushed against the cool, rough walls as I moved closer to the sound. They trembled as they trailed over small cracks and bumps in the surface, each step drawing me nearer.
The voice rose slightly, clearer now:
"It's been a long… a long time coming…"
For a moment, I thought it was another song entirely, something modern with a similar tune. But then the unmistakable sorrow in the voice hit me, and I realized what it was. My heart twisted as the next line filled the empty corridor: "But I know… a change gon' come."
The song wrapped itself around me, pulling me forward. It wasn’t just the words, it was the way the singer stretched every note, the way the piano seemed to carry a weight of its own. It made me think of loss, of longing, of hope too fragile to hold onto. The kind of hope you didn’t trust but couldn’t quite let go of.
I was so fucking tired. Tired of running. Tired of hiding. Tired of surviving when there wasn’t a single part of me that wanted to anymore. Back in that prison, I had thought of every way I could end it. Every single way. I thought about slashing my wrists, letting the blood pour out onto that cold, filthy floor. I thought about grabbing one of the guards’ guns, shoving the barrel against my temple, and pulling the trigger without hesitation. I’d imagined tying the bedsheet to the pipes above and stepping off the edge of the bed, letting the rope do the rest.
There were nights when I’d lie there, staring at the cracks in the ceiling, picturing how they’d find me. My body limp, my skin cold, the expression on my face one of relief, finally free from this endless fucking cycle of pain.
But then… something shifted. Slowly, those fantasies stopped being about me dying and started being about Vaughn. Killing him. Hurting him. Watching him scream until his voice broke, just like he’d broken me. I imagined his face twisted in agony, his body battered and broken, begging for mercy I would never give. I thought about taking my time, dragging it out, making sure he felt every ounce of the suffering he’d caused me.
And now, as I walked down that hallway, that same twisted satisfaction burned in my chest. This song, this fucking song would be perfect. The soundtrack to his destruction. The notes would linger in the air while I gave him hell, while I tore him apart piece by piece.
I stopped in front of an elevator, the metallic doors reflecting a blurred, distorted version of me. Elevator reflections always looked wrong, like you weren’t really there, like some other version of you was trapped on the other side. I stared at it, barely recognizing the person looking back.
It wasn’t just my face, though that looked different too, thinner, hollower, like all the life had been sucked out of me. It was what I was wearing. The dirty, blood-stained clothes from the prison were gone, replaced with something oversized and baggy. The shirt hung off me like a mental facility fit, faded and shapeless, swallowing me whole. The pants were the same, barely clinging to my hips, the fabric rough and worn like they’d been through hell and back.
My eyes dropped down, and that’s when I noticed my feet. Bare, raw, the skin red and sore, covered in patches of grime. I flexed my toes, and a sharp sting shot through them, a reminder of just how far I’d come, or how little I had left.
Disoriented, my gaze flicked to my arm. The faint cut from the big man the previous day was wrapped in a clean bandage now, the only thing on me that looked remotely cared for. I touched it lightly, the ache dull but constant, grounding me just enough to keep moving.
The song grew louder, its pull impossible to resist. My legs felt like they weren’t mine as I kept walking, my fingers trailing along the walls, the cold surface grounding me in the moment. The hallway stretched on, endless and dim, until I finally reached a turning, a room on the far end corner.
The voices hit me like a wave before I even reached the doorway, sharp fragments cutting through the air.
“…five fucking kids gone. Just like that. This week alone.” The voice was raw, shaky. A woman, maybe mid-thirties, her tone jagged with exhaustion and anger. “Do you know what that means? Five mothers out there, not knowing if their kids are alive, dead, or being—” Her voice cracked. She didn’t finish.
Another voice, deeper, almost a growl, cut in. “It’s trafficking. It’s always fucking trafficking. You think they’re just running away? Bullshit. Someone’s taking them, using them.”
“You don’t know that.” A third voice now, higher-pitched, strained. “Maybe it’s something else. Maybe they’re being killed. Or—fuck—I don’t know—”
“Does it fucking matter?” The deep voice was a snarl now. “Dead, alive, trafficked—they’re gone. Gone! And no one gives a shit.”
A sharp inhale, a woman again, her breath catching mid-sentence. “The police don’t even pretend to care. They take the report, nod their heads, tell you they’ll ‘look into it.’ Then they fucking don’t. They don’t even call you back. It’s like they’re already writing off those kids. Like they’re already fucking dead.” Her voice broke on the last word, splintering into a sob she tried to choke down.
“Goddamn it.” The deeper voice again, heavy with frustration. “You think they care about people like us? They don’t care. They’ve never cared. As long as it’s not their kids, they couldn’t give less of a—”
Another voice rose, cutting through like a blade. “Do you have any idea what it feels like? To wake up every day and wonder if your child is alive? To not know if they’re eating, if they’re crying for you, if—” Her voice faltered, trembling now. “If they’re screaming for you while someone’s hurting them? Do you know what that feels like? Do you?! It fucking destroys you.”
The room seemed to vibrate with the weight of her words, the rawness of her voice making my stomach churn.
Another voice broke in, loud and seething. “And what are we supposed to do, huh? Sit here? Pray? Hope for the fucking best while they just keep disappearing? Every goddamn day, it’s another one, and we just sit here like sheep waiting for the slaughter.”
“They’re not just disappearing.” The deep voice was back, steady now but simmering with rage. “Someone knows. Someone’s fucking doing this. And I swear to God, when I find out who, I’ll—”
“Enough.” Adeline’s voice sliced through the argument like ice, calm but layered with exhaustion. She sounded worn, like the weight of the conversation had pressed on her too. “Enough. Screaming isn’t going to help those kids.”
The tension crackled like static, the voices lowering but not disappearing, muttering now, raw and jagged with unspoken anger.
I rounded the corner and stepped into the kitchen. The conversation hit a wall, silenced instantly, all eyes turning to me.
Except one.
At the far end of the room, a blonde girl stood at the counter, a knife in her hand. She didn’t even glance up, her focus on the cucumber in front of her. “They’re just kids,” she said, her voice low, trembling but venomous. Her hands worked the knife aggressively, chopping with a force that sent the pieces scattering. “They’re children. And no one fucking cares.”
The blade thudded against the cutting board, sharp and rhythmic, almost violent. Her shoulders were tense, her movements jerky, and I saw the slight tremor in her hands.
Her voice rose, cracking under the weight of her anger. “They’re just fucking kids!” she screamed, her breath hitching. “And no one gives a shit! Not the police, not the government, no one!”
The knife slammed down, the sound reverberating through the quiet kitchen. Her chest heaved as she gripped the counter, her knuckles white, her head bowed like she was trying to hold herself together.
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