EZRA
I trudged into my room, every muscle in my body screaming with exhaustion. Not just physical exhaustion—no, that was the least of my worries. This was something deeper, something that settled in my bones like an unwelcome guest that refused to leave. The weight of everything , the humiliation, the pain, the sheer futility of it all crushed me as I shut the door behind me, locking myself away from the rest of the world.
For what? An hour? Maybe two? Until Lucius decided I was needed again?
I let out a bitter laugh as I collapsed onto the bed, my limbs sprawling out like a puppet with its strings cut. The mattress was cold, unwelcoming, but I didn't care. I just needed to breathe. To exist in my own misery for a little while longer before reality came knocking again.
"Brilliant plan, Ezra," I muttered, rubbing my aching temples. "Absolutely brilliant. Because, of course, Lucius was going to listen. Because, of course, trying to explain would work this time. What were you thinking?"
I wasn't. That was the problem. I was desperate, and desperation made people stupid.
I turned onto my side, staring blankly at the wall, my voice dropping into a low murmur. "Maybe next time, I should throw myself at his feet. Beg for mercy. That should work, right? Or, or maybe I should just accept my fate, let myself rot here like the worthless thing he wants me to be. That's the logical thing to do, isn't it?"
I chuckled darkly, shaking my head at myself. It was pathetic, talking to myself like this, trying to find some twisted form of comfort in my own sarcasm. But what else did I have? Certainly not a friend. Certainly not Malachai.
Malachai.
I squeezed my eyes shut as his name slithered into my mind like a venomous snake, biting, poisoning. I had already made up my mind. I wasn't going to think about him anymore. It was easier that way.
"Not that he ever cared anyway," I whispered. "Not that he ever even looked at me like I was anything more than another disposable body in Lucius's grand scheme of things."
My stomach growled, protesting the lack of food, but I ignored it. Eating meant caring, meant taking care of myself, and I wasn't in the mood to pretend I deserved that tonight. Not after everything. Not after being dragged back into that office and made to relive the nightmare all over again.
I let out a slow breath, rubbing my hands over my face, as if that would somehow erase the feeling of Lucius's fingers digging into my skin, of the shame burning in my veins.
"Escape plan," I muttered to myself, trying to shift my focus, trying to grasp at whatever little sanity I had left. "Right. Because that's a thing now. Ezra's grand escape. Part fifty-seven of his tragic, miserable life."
I forced myself to sit up, dragging my knees to my chest, wrapping my arms around them like they were the only things holding me together. "So, let's review, shall we? Option one: run. Simple. Stupid. Impossible. Lucius has eyes everywhere. Cameras, guards, Malachai." I scoffed. "Like he'd even try to stop me. He'd probably just watch. Again."
I swallowed, shaking my head. "Alright, option two. Play along. Be the perfect little servant. Get in his good graces, wait for an opportunity to slip away."
I paused before laughing dryly. "Yeah, because that's worked out so well for me so far."
I dropped my forehead against my knees, exhaling slowly. My head felt heavy, my thoughts sluggish, like I was wading through thick, suffocating mud.
"Face it, Ezra. There's no escape. Not really."
The words stung more than I expected them to. I didn't want to believe them, but deep down, I already had.
I glanced toward the small pitcher of water on the table across the room, but I made no move to reach for it. My throat was dry, aching, but I didn't care. I didn't deserve it. I didn't deserve anything but this suffocating silence, this never-ending cycle of shame and pain and hopelessness.
And yet, I still kept talking. Still kept trying to reason with myself, to find some humor in this godforsaken life.
"Maybe I should start a journal," I mused, resting my chin on my knees. "Document every little miserable moment. Maybe one day someone will find it and think, 'Wow, this guy had it rough.' Not that it would matter. Not that I matter."
I squeezed my eyes shut, swallowing down the lump in my throat.
"I just want to sleep. Just for a little while. Just until tomorrow comes, and I have to do this all over again."
But even as I curled up on the bed, wrapping myself in the only warmth I could find my own arms, I knew sleep wouldn't come.
It never did. Not anymore.