If The Walls Could Talk

Drip.
She looked up at the dripping ceiling with disgust, then at the gray plastic bucket below. It was almost filled with the dirty, brown liquid that she had come to know as rain water. To think this shit fell from the sky.
Drip.
She stared down at her hands and studied them. So slender and small, fragile almost. To think they were the hands of a killer. She turned them over and stared down at her palms, studying every line. Rubbing the pads of her fingertips together, she felt the texture of her skin, then turned her hand over again and concentrated on picking at a small scar. A scar that shouldn't have a name. She wasn't even human after all. Well, not 100%.
Drip.
Damn, she'd have to see to getting that leak fixed. That dripping was really getting monotonous. Letting her arm drop to her side, she closed her eyes, hoping to get some sort of rest before the sun came up.
Drip. Drip. Drip. Drip.
"YOU WILL NOT GIVE UP!" Shouts.
"I WILL NOT GIVE UP!" Running.
"I CAN'T HEAR YOU!" Lydecker. Asshole.
"I WILL NOT GIVE UP!" Louder. More running.
"And if you are captured?" Oh the question. The question.
"I WILL NOT BE CAPTURED." Already captured. In a torture chamber of military-style child abuse.
Captured. White stretchers and the smell of Lysol disinfectant. Lydecker's approval. He always smelled like cigars and Old Spice. Damn that Lydecker. Seizures. The room. The white room. NO!
She woke up, gasping for air. Disoriented, she looked around her, then realized she was safe. Pulling her knees to her chest, she whimpered as her lower lip trembled. She was alone. So alone. Sighing, she leaned heavily against the wall as her X-5 combat training kicked in. You are a soldier. Crying is not for soldiers.
She took in a deep breath and let it out.
Then she cried.