⚠️ Warning: This chapter contains scenes of religious violence, including physical torture. Some readers may find it disturbing.
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Journal of Mylova – Day 3
I can barely hold my pen. My hand trembles, fragile and uncertain, as if every word I write is a battle against my own body. My left arm has grown weak, almost useless, and lifting it feels impossible.
But writing still keeps me standing. It's the only thing that is mine — the last proof that I am still here.
Today, the patience in their eyes finally ran out.
It was no longer words or glances that struck me, but their hands. Their anger, restrained for too long, was unleashed upon me without mercy.
They pulled me from my bed before daylight had even broken. I rose, staggering, my heart pounding like a dull drum in my chest. Each step toward the Hall of Silence was an ordeal.
This place is a cold, bare prison where time feels suspended.
At its center stands an old table, its rough wood scarred by years of use, with two ropes hanging limply like silent witnesses. On the walls, carved crosses seemed to judge every breath, every shiver.
The floor bore old stains — marks that told of past suffering without words. For a moment, I thought the dried blood was calling to me.
— Do you want to recite your prayer? they asked in icy voices.
I nodded, trembling, and whispered the words that kept me holding on.
— Lord, make sure I never become like them.
The first slap cracked through the oppressive silence. Strangely, it didn't hurt — or maybe my mind refused to feel it. But what followed was heavier, harder — a storm of blows raining down on me.
On my back, my legs, my stomach. I didn't count.
They shouted, their voices merging into one scream: that evil lived within me, that I had to be purified, that God hated those who would not submit.
Each impact tore me apart a little more.
And yet… I stayed silent.
My silence became my shield — a fragile refuge in the chaos. Refusing to give them fear, refusing to show weakness — it was my way of fighting back, even when my body screamed.
They left me there, sprawled on the cold floor, drained of all strength. I think I drifted into a hazy fog.
When my eyes opened again, an odd sensation crept over me — my left arm was numb, as if it belonged to someone else. Even now, I can't move it the way I used to.
I am weak.
Weaker than ever, perhaps.
But I am still alive. And as long as my mind holds, they have not won.
Tonight, as darkness wraps around the room, the pain eases just a little. But the fear stays, crouched in the corner, waiting for the next day.
Still, I refuse to let it win.
I want to believe there is still a light — a fragile hope — that will not go out.