Every single joint in my body aches. My throat feels as though it's been rubbed bloody with sandpaper. My eyes sting with cold, hysterical tears. My heart is blackened with hate and frustration. My blood boils with anger and resentment. This is me, the new me. I never knew insanity would feel so right.

We're standing in front of a door. Jonathan takes a key card and swipes it against a black pane of glass fitted into the small space beside the handle, and the stainless steel door slides out of place. I'm pushed inside. The door clicks behind him. Jonathan cuts the band holding my hands together. I turn, holding my reddened wrists, and glare at him.

"Is Jonathan even your name?" I ask him the question that's been on my mind since the moment I realised he was a liar.

He sighs and glances at the plush carpet. He finally looks at me, "Yes. My name is Jonathan. Although no one's calls me that," he says. "Not anymore," he adds.

I see something in his eyes. His voice, a little sad. A hint of regret, even. Maybe, he remembers his mother's or father's voice calling to him, calling him by his childhood nickname. Before the world turned sour and unsuitable for children to be raised as children, of course. Yet, the memory of the Jonathan that drove the butt of his gun against my face, still remains with me.

"Then what do I call you?" I ask, harsher then I truly intended.

"Jon."

I turn away from him, removing my long knitted cardigan. I place it on the queen-size bed and look around this lavish room. The walls are painted a beautiful cream colour, the carpet almost matching. An effortless crystal chandelier hangs from the ceiling; it almost hurts to look a it. An armoire made of fine wood and glass, flush against the wall. A door to my right, ajar and ready to be explored.

I stand and inch toward the blackened door. I feel the smooth doorframe with my rough hands and push it open with my fingertips.

A light flickers on, displaying tile flooring and cream walls. A sliding door shower and a white stone sink reside in the corner, a rack with soft towels beside it. The familiar bathroom is decorated with flowers the colour of the sky on a winter's morning. They are both beautiful and tragic to look at; I can't stand them.

I grit my teeth when my eyes land on the rectangular mirror above the sink. I haven't seen my reflection in years. I was disgusted by myself back then, nothing has changed since. I feel my face for the dry blood, swollen skin, open cuts. I fear if I see myself like this, I'll break. Maybe this is what I deserve. Maybe this is fate, cruel truth.

This is hell.

"Why am I here?"

I turn to Jon, he hasn't moved from his post. His eyes watch me with fascination and undivided attention.

"You have to get ready," he tells me. He's being vague deliberately, I know he is.

"Why am I here, Jon?"

Now, he looks uncomfortable. Understandably, my first thought is he's uncomfortable because I have the capability to kill him by just touching his skin. I'm angry. Jon is the only other person in the room. It could happen, but Jon isn't afraid. He's uncomfortable. Why? I always though I was a good judge of character. Now, I am no longer certain I have that talent.

"Please," it's the first time I have ever heard him say that word. "You have to get ready. There are clothes for you in there," he points at the armoire. "You're both expected for dinner tonight."

I look at him sharply. "Both?"

He stiffens. His lips turn into a firm line, and for some unknown reason I know Jon won't be saying anything else about the matter.

"Both?" I repeat.

"You are expected for dinner."

Jon walks out the door and doesn't look back. Warner must have another prisoner locked up in this hellhole. Who am I kidding, everyone in this building is a prisoner in one way or another.

I remove my shoes and let my bare feet touch the carpet. It's softness bothers me so I leave it behind and walk into the bathroom. I close the door behind me and contemplate whether I actually need a shower. But when I notice the dust, dry dirt and blood on my skin, I sigh. I strip. Abruptly aware of the mirror, I stay out of it's way. When I look back at my pile of clothes and notice the stark contrast between the colour of my clothes and the clean tile, I find that it bothers me. Again, I sigh and open the door.

I stop. Jon is probably out there. I clothe myself with a clean towel for the time being and throw my dirty clothes on the bed. I shut the bathroom door behind me and wash.

I opted for a warm shower for the first time in over a year, but when I feel the hot water on my skin, it irritates me. I settle for lukewarm water and I let it drown me. I scrub at my skin with purple soap that smells of lavender and sweet honey. I wash my hair with soap only meant for hair. I watch the clean water turn dark and crimson as I clean my skin. I feel the sting of the open cuts burning as I wash them. I lean my head against the shower door and let the noise carry me away. Only when the water turns cold do I get out and dry myself off. I wrap the towel tightly around my body and open the door.

Jon stands there, hands behind his back. He catches my eye for the smallest second and then turns away.

"Where are my clothes?" My eyes fly from the empty bed to Jon.

"I was ordered to dispose of them," he says, unable to look at me.

"Ordered? By who?" It is a stupid question; one that I know the answer to. I ask anyway.

"Warner," he says the name almost like a sigh. "I've been instructed to tell you that you must choose something from the armoire."

I walk cautiously to the beautiful piece of statement furniture, and open it. Inside are an array of different shoes and dresses, some mid length and some short. All of them are styled differently, made of unique martials. Long sleeves, short sleeves and spaghetti straps. The dresses are sorted from lightest to darkest, but it doesn't make much difference. I notice most of the dresses are a darker shade anyways. Every single one looks incredibly too small.

"I can't wear these," I think aloud.

"What will you do?" Jon asks. "Have dinner in that towel?"

"Shit," they have me in a freaking box here. I ruffle through the drawers and grab essentials. I snatch the first long sleeved dress I see and storm off into the bathroom.

It's by far the tightest piece of clothing I have ever worn. The dress is black and comes in at my waist. The entire top half of the dress is made of fine lace that irritates my wrists. It's very fitting and it clings to my skin. The bottom half is smooth and silky. It hangs richly and loosely much too high above my knees. The dress hugs my body it all the places I hate.

I comb my hair, facing away from the mirror. By the time I step out of the bathroom, my hair is somewhat dry and in it's usual loose waves.

My shoes are gone, I should have expected that. I open the armoire, not knowing where else to go. The first thing I notice is that every single pair of shoes sitting on their wooden platform, are heels. I have never worn heels before. The thought of having to wear some and walk to God knows where, makes me dizzy. I sit down on the bed, ready to give up, as if that were an option.

I only notice Jon standing next to me when he places a pair of heels on the carpet, in front of me. They are pointy in the front, the colour of my skin, and maybe 3 inches high with a thin heel. They seem to be the shortest pair in the entire armoire. I don't look at him when I slide them on. They fit perfectly. An alarm starts to go off in the back of my head, but I ignore it. Jon doesn't offer me his hand as I struggle to my feet. I take a step forward, Jon a step back. I let go of the wall when I reach the door, and I decide to pace the room a couple times before I walk out in these awful things.

I am constantly reminded that I am expected for dinner, and when we do finally leave the room, I find myself surrounded by soldiers. Three stand on my left and three stand on my right, one guards my back and another the front. They all hold two weapons each. Jon is still standing beside me. They all look identical to me, like blank canvases. We move as one, all the way to a huge dinning hall.

There are 7 banquet tables draped across the room, blue silk spilling across the tabletops, crystal vases bursting with orchids and stargazer lilies, glass bowls filled with gardenias. The scene is familiar to me, a memory I want to forget. Warner is positioned at the table directly in the middle, seated at the head, like a king. As soon as he sees us, he stands up. The entire room stands in turn. I notice a wide eyed girl next to him, but I'm distracted as the soldiers break away and take their seats at the nearest banquet table. I'm left with only Jon standing to my right.

We're paused at the entrance to this monstrous room, with the eyes of every being staring at me. The entire space is still and silent, the only noise to be heard is the distinct sound of my heals against the smooth, concrete floor. From afar I see a single chair on his left and I silently sigh. It isn't long before I'm staring at Warner as he pulls out the chair for me. Something in me breaks and I can't look at him anymore, so I look at the chair, then the girl, then the chair, and then I sit.

Warner sits silently next to me, and in turn, the entire room. Jon takes a seat on my left. My posture is perfect as I inspect the room, my eyes gliding over everything as my face is hidden with the help of my hair. Platters of food decorate the tables like ornaments, I don't think about how much of it will go to waste. I feel their eyes on me, I feel Warner's eyes on me. It makes my skin crawl, it takes everything in me not to scream in frustration and run to my freedom.

A tedious moment passes, but finally a sound is made. Unfortunately, it is Warner's voice that interrupts the silence.

"You look incredible, my dear," his voice is loud and sickening, "but it really is unfortunate about your face."

I should have clawed at his face or grabbed his neck when he reached for the hair on the right side of my face and placed it behind me, revealing my cut lip and bruised face. When his hand lingers on my dark hair, I find myself doing nothing but stare at my empty platter.

Warner leans in, "You shouldn't have fought back," his voice quieter than before, but equally as condescending.

Warner fills his plate full of fresh fruit, meat and bread, in turn he fills mine. It's too colourful, unlike anything I've seen in a very long time. I'm hungry, but stupid and stubborn, too. The second I eat this food, I'm his. I look around the room, meeting the eyes of his men. Most of them are here because there is nothing left for them out there. Am I the same? I'll never really be free of my past, I'll never be able to find peace. Is this what is best for me? Why am I hiding who I am?

I'm boiling with rage, confusion, selfish thoughts. I'm trapped in hell, and it can only get worse.

I move my hair away from my face and tuck the loose strands behind my ears. I lean back in my chair, placing both of my arms on the rests, unapologetically. I eat a grape, I drink the water poured for me. It's not enough, but I don't eat anymore. I stare at my plate, I contemplate life.

"Are you not hungry?"

"No, thank you."

"Please," I small voice says. "Eat something."

A girl of a similar age to me, leans forward, her bluey green eyes wide. Her long brunette hair spills over her shoulders, revealing a hauntingly beautiful face. For a moment, I wonder if she's willingly here. It wouldn't surprise me that Warner finds the need to have a gorgeous young girl by his side, but by the look on her face and the sad expression in her colourful eyes, I know she is not. She's trapped.

For a moment, I don't take my eyes away from her. I notice her looking at my battered face, and she frowns, slightly. Her long face and fine cheekbones remind me of someone I used to know a long time ago, but I just can't figure out who. She's a distant reminder of a life I want to forget, so in turn, I attempt to overlook the fact that I might have known her. This world is too big and too ugly for coincidences.

It doesn't take me long to realise something isn't right. The room was full of the sound of hungry soldiers, devouring food. The room felt full, but now it's still. I can hear nothing but the odd fork, hitting the edge of a plate a couple tables away. They're looking at me, their eyes wide and waiting. Jon is staring at me from under his lashes. His head is lowered and his brows are pulled together tightly, his eyes are filled with something close to worry.

"Juliette, love," Warner says slowly. "This is Ophelia."