I'm in a white room. No windows. No visible door. Just a single metal mesh vent near the floor.

I am on my back. For once, the canvas straitjacket is not restraining my arms. Shakily, I climb to my feet, which are bare. I'm in a clean white shirt and pants, similar to what a child would wear to bed in a hospital. However, this is no hospital. I reach up to touch my hair, and find that it is gone - most of it, anyways. It has been messily chopped short like a boy's. This is new.

My arms are aching on the crease of my inner elbow. Rolling up my sleeves with shaking, pale hands, I find a total of thirteen needle marks, a tiny purple bruise in the places where IV's have been. Sedatives, memory wipers, and poisonous substances have been forced into my veins over the past - how long has it been? - a year. A year to this day. It has been a year since I saw anyone or spoken.

"Hello, Miss Mes." It's him. The man who has been speaking to me through hidden speakers. I have never seen him, but I know his voice. It is equivalent to fingernails against a chalkboard, a serrated knife cutting through bone. I begin shaking as I collapse to my knees. This voice has subjected me to me more pain and more torture than any other. "It has been three-hundred and sixty-five days since we have brought you here. I am sure you remember the day will." I can almost hear his grin.

"At this point in time, I am done playing your games. It is time that you started speaking to us." He says the word 'us' an awful lot. Who is 'us' anyways? I can't dwell on the thought for long, because his voice clicks off the intercom, and it is silent once more. Something bad is about to happen, I can feel it in every inch of my body.

Suddenly, I hear a soft hissing noise. Looking around frantically, I find the source: the mesh vent. It sounds like air escaping a balloon through a tiny hole. It's hardly noticeable, but a clear mist begins to seep into the room. I realize what's happening with a jolt: I am being gassed. I clamber to the far corner of the room, sinking to my knees, which I clutch desperately. This is it, I'm going to die. I hold my breath for as long as possible, but I feel the mist settle on my skin. It doesn't do anything but leave a deadly cold residue. I can't hold my breath anymore. I must breathe.

I take in a gulp of oxygen, and my throat and chest is set on fire. There is a detached, high-pitched noise that nearly blows my eardrums. A scream. My scream. I can't stop it. The gas, it's setting flame to my mouth and throat and lungs. It's acidic. I can feel it tearing tiny holes in my flesh, creating sores and blistering every ounce of fragile life. Screaming requires breathing, so I only inhale more of the toxic gas. Then, I hear myself speak. Yell.

"Please, stop! Stop! STOP! I'LL DO ANYTHING! I'LL DO ANYTHING!"

The hissing stops immediately. I am curled up on the ground, sobbing. The saltwater in my tears burns the back of my throat even more. I can't stop crying. I have gone numb to what's going on around me: a wall sliding back, a figure in scrubs with a syringe. No. No, I don't want any more of that. I am in so much pain.

"GET AWAY FROM ME! GET THE FUCK AWAY FROM ME!"

I am on the figure in an instant, crashing us both to the ground. I blindly claw his face, tear apart his clothing bit by bit, until the sharp jab of a needle meeting my back stops me. Slowly, the world turns to mush. I stop trying.

I am done.

I am broken.