Useless

Useless

“You ruin everything you touch.”

I woke to the sound of leather shoes on tile.

The room was too quiet for a hospital, too sterile for a prison. The scent of antiseptic clung to the air like a warning. I was on a padded bench — not a bed — arms chained to the iron rails behind me. My wrists ached. Cold metal bit into bone every time I shifted.

There was a two-way mirror in front of me. I didn’t need to be told someone was watching.

My stomach turned — not from hunger, but from instinct. My baby. I shifted slowly, protectively, and winced as my ribs protested. Silas’s blood still stained the hem of my dress, dried and dark. I didn’t know if he was alive. I didn’t even know how long I’d been unconscious.

Then the door opened.

And hell walked in—Dad.

He looked unchanged. Same slicked-back hair, same spotless white shirt rolled at the sleeves, same gold ring glinting under harsh lights. But there was something colder in his eyes now. More calculated.

He didn’t say anything at first. Just looked at me — eyes dragging over every bruise, every trace of blood — and sneered like I was something he had to scrape off his shoes.

“I gave you everything,” he said quietly, stepping closer. “And this is how you repay me.”

I didn’t answer.

His hand moved fast.

A sharp, stinging crack echoed through the room as my face snapped sideways. The metallic taste of blood bloomed in my mouth.

I didn’t cry. Didn’t flinch. I just turned my head back and stared.

“Still with the attitude,” he muttered. “Just like your mother.”

He spat the word like it was filth.

“You know, for a moment I thought maybe the bloodline skipped you. That maybe, just maybe, you were normal. But no — of course not. Your mother lied about you too.”

My heart jumped. “What are you talking about?”

He leaned in. “You think you’re the first?” He gestured lazily. “You’re part of something ancient. Something powerful. And your body—your blood—holds the key to everything she tried to bury.”

I said nothing.

He straightened, looking down on me like I was already dissected.

“You thought you could hide with that…thing.” He scoffed. “Do you even know what he is? What you’ve done?”

My hand drifted toward my stomach again. I didn’t even realize I was doing it.

His eyes followed.

And then he laughed — dry, bitter.

“The child,” he said, disgust curling every syllable. “Of course. A mistake on top of a mistake.”

I clenched my jaw.

He came closer — too close — and crouched in front of me. “Do you know what happens to anomalies like that? Things that shouldn’t exist? They get erased. Quietly. Completely. For balance.”

My voice cracked. “He’s not a thing.”

Vittorio stood slowly. “She,” he corrected. “Your child. It’s a girl.”

The air sucked out of my lungs.

A girl, how could they know as early as now?

He said it like it was a death sentence.

My chains rattled as I shifted back, pressing into the wall behind me. He watched like a vulture, waiting for the fear to show. I wouldn’t give it to him. Not all of it.

“She’ll be nothing like you,” he said. “I won’t let her.”

That’s when I snapped.

“You don’t get to touch her,” I spat. “You don’t get to name her, claim her, speak about her.”

He slapped me again — harder this time. I tasted copper and felt the heat bloom along my cheek.

“You were never supposed to be born,” he hissed. “You ruin everything you touch.”

He stormed out. The door slammed so hard the mirror rattled.

And just like that, I was alone again.

I slid down the bench, curling sideways as far as the chains allowed. My palms cradled my stomach, gently, as if I could shield her from everything.

From him. From all of this.

My cheek throbbed. My lip split open with every breath. But I didn’t cry. Not now.

“I’ll get us out,” I whispered, barely audible. “I swear.”

I didn’t know how. But I’d find a way.

Even if it killed me.

For a week, they kept me in a room with no clocks, no windows, and no names.

Only needles.

I lost track of how many times they came. Always in silence — masked, gloved, clinical. They didn’t speak unless necessary. They strapped me to a table, drew blood, recorded something, and left. Sometimes they took bone marrow. Sometimes tissue. Sometimes more.

I bled every day. Sometimes more than I thought I had left.

I asked where Silas was once.

No one answered.

The lights never turned off. I learned to sleep sitting up, learned to time the guards’ steps by the vibration in the wall. I counted them like prayers. Counted the drops of blood in the drain. Counted the bruises blooming on my arms.

By day four, my thoughts started to slip.

I heard things that weren’t there. The sound of waves. A voice humming. The soft clink of a spoon in a mug. Stupid, ordinary things.

By day five, the voice changed.

“Aria.”

I snapped upright. My chains clinked.

“Aria, love, breathe.”

I looked around, throat tight. There was no one. Just the same cold walls and the smell of metal and salt. My breath hitched.

“Not real,” I whispered to myself. “Not real.”

But then I heard it again. Closer this time. Warm. Familiar in the way only ghosts are.

“You always forget to breathe when you’re scared.”

I froze.

My mother’s voice.

It couldn’t be. She was dead. Buried. Gone long before this nightmare started.

Still—

I closed my eyes. I knew better. But I let myself lean into it, just for a second.

“Do you remember that time you scraped your knee on the old garden steps?” the voice said softly. “You were six. You refused to cry. Even then, you hated being seen weak.”

A cold tear slid down my cheek.

“Why are you here?” I whispered into the dark.

“I’m not,” she said gently. “You are. And you need to get out.”

I bit my lip to stay quiet.

“Listen to me,” she continued. “He’s coming. But he’s hurt.”

“Silas?” I whispered.

No answer.

The silence that followed was worse than the blood loss.

My body ached. My mind frayed. My hands trembled in ways I couldn’t control anymore. I pressed my palm to my stomach again, whispering something I didn’t even hear.

But that night — or maybe day, I didn’t know anymore — I heard the hum again.

Low. Familiar. A tune my mother used to sing while brushing my hair. I hadn’t thought of it in years. But it was there, clear as a bell, somewhere between my ribs and memory.

I curled into myself, fingers tangled in the thin sheet, and let the sound anchor me.

Even if it was a hallucination.

Even if I was losing my mind.

Because right now, that voice was the only thing reminding me I hadn’t died here. Not yet.

And if Silas really was out there — hurt or not — then I had to hold on.

Long enough for him to find me.

Or for me to find a way to escape on my own.

Whichever came first.