My back is suddenly thrust against a wooden chair. I hear only the sounds of my fast-beating heart. My hands rest on my lap as if cuffed, though there are no metal bands. Water drops—I look up to find the source but realize it’s my face that’s dripping as if I’d just been water-baptized. I look around and see multiple cooling systems in the long, well-lit hall. So there is, in fact, no heat. Before I can think of why I am sweating this much, the walls make my eyes dart around the room, never settling.
The walls are covered with cubes. They are lined up perfectly, some sticking out while others are set back, casting shadows under soft lights. The room feels like a pattern of prison cells—repetitive and a little strange. The colors are mostly gray and white, giving the room a clean, almost clinical vibe. The floor is smooth and shiny, reflecting the cube walls. The air is still, and my breath echoes, amplifying the emptiness and the room’s strictness.
My hands now rub my arms, my fingers tracing my goosebumps. I look to my right and see my reflection in the cells… 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6… all the cells. I press my foot against the ground, trying to stand, but just then, a cell’s surface quivers, as if its glass were water disturbed by an unseen ripple. The reflection stares back, lips moving soundlessly at first.
Then she—they—spoke.
Cell α: You cannot change the fact that you failed in school. No matter how hard you try, your record will always bear failure.
Cell β: You close your eyes at night, hoping for sleep, but old memories slip under the door like shadows. They curl up next to you, whispering reminders of who you were, of what you did.
Cell γ: Your parents were never there. They should be the ones to love you the most, but you grew up without them as if they weren’t alive.
Cell δ: He betrayed you, and he never apologized. You loved him and gave him all you had, yet he dared look you in the face and say you deserved it.
Cell ε: You would never get back your virginity, you lost it to the man who raped you when you were only nine years old.
The cells kept taking turns, each of them having their truth to bear.
I clamp my hands over my ears, but the voices slip through, seeping into my mind like water through cracked stone. My chest tightens. My breath quickens. The cells murmur in unison now, their voices weaving a chorus of my past, my pain, my shame.
Then something shifts
The room, once cold and rigid, flickers. The cubes distort, their edges blurring as if the structure itself is reconsidering its existence. My reflection in the glass stares back at me—not as fractured pieces, but as one. I see the fear in my eyes, but beyond that, I see something else. Something raw. Something… defiant.
I take a breath, slow and deep.
“No.” My voice is hoarse, barely above a whisper, but it cuts through the droning voices. “You are not my prison.”
The murmurs falter.
“I failed, yes. But failure is not my identity.”
Cell α quivers.
“I remember the past, but I do not belong to it.”
Cell β flickers.
“I was abandoned, but I am not unloved.”
Cell γ dims.
“I was betrayed, but I still have the power to heal.”
Cell δ trembles.
Tears stream down my face, but they no longer feel like shackles. They feel like rain after drought—cleansing, freeing. I turn to the last cell.
“What happened to me was not my fault. And it does not define me.”
A long silence stretches through the room. The last cell shudders, its surface rippling violently before—
Crack.
The walls splinter. The glass shatters. The voices crumble into dust, scattering like echoes of a past that no longer holds me captive. Light floods the room. My chair disappears beneath me, and for the first time, I feel weightless. Free.
I open my eyes.
The room is gone. The cubes, the voices, the pain—gone. I am standing in an open space, the sky endless above me. I touch my chest and feel the steady, unbroken rhythm of my heart. It beats with strength. With defiance. With hope.
I take a step forward.
And this time, I do not look back.
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