Taller walls
The change in Violet wasn't sudden; it was more like watching the color slowly drain from a painting, leaving nothing but shades of gray. After that day with the guard, she reverted to the hollow version of herself Dash hated more than anything.
Her stare was always empty now, her expressions carefully crafted, and her words robotic. "I'm fine," she said after every experiment, no matter how cruel or excruciating. "I'm fine," she muttered after waking from a nightmare, her shaking hands betraying her facade. "I'm fine," she whispered even as blood dripped from fresh wounds product of a recent experiment.
But she wasn't fine.
Dash clenched his fists. He didn't believe her, couldn't believe her. Not when he remembered the way that guard's hand lingered on her shoulder, the way her body had trembled under his touch.
He tried to talk to her, tried to get her to open up, but she always brushed him off. Even after the cruelest experiments, even when she woke up from nightmares, her screams still echoing in the cell, her response was always the same:
"I'm fine, Dash."
He watched helplessly as the sister he knew—the one who used to hold on, even in the face of despair—seemed to fade further into herself every day. She spoke only when necessary, rarely ate, and spent hours staring blankly at the wall. Her fake smile never faltered, and that somehow made her seem more broken.
And it got worse after his eye.
After that, the guilt in her gaze became impossible to ignore.
Even when her own eye was damaged too. She brushed off the partial blindness in her eye saying it is not that bad. But Dash noticed how she flinched every time her depth perception failed her, how she bumped into the cell walls and hesitated before taking a step.
She never mentioned it. Instead, her worry shifted entirely to him.
"Are you okay?" She asked every morning or every time he also bumps into something because of his blind spot, inspecting him as if he might fall apart at any moment. Her guilt festered, and it poisoned every part of her.
"Vi, stop," Dash said one night when she insisted on fixing the makeshift bandage for the third time. "You don't have to—"
"I do," she interrupted, her voice sharper than usual. She looked at him, her one good eye glistening with tears she refused to shed. "If I'd been stronger—if I'd fought harder—"
"It's not your fault," he said, reaching for her hands.
She remained silent but her eyes told him she didn't believe him.
At night, when she thought he was asleep, Dash would hear her crying softly to herself. She tried to hide it, but he knew.
The worst part was that he didn't know how to help her. Every time he tried to talk about it, she shut him down with the same lifeless mask, the same empty words.
"I'm fine," she'd say, her fake smile plastered on her face. But Dash could see it in her eyes—she wasn't fine. And she was slipping further away with every passing day.
Sorry if this chapter was short.