The tank- that was what they called it. It had become a place of punishment, but also of reflection and thought. I remember the first time Phiniira’lyss had her lackeys stuff me in here. She had made a grand announcement that her goddess had requested a grander gesture for my sessions of repenting. That beating me with blunt objects over dirty, torn towels and blankets to prevent any bones breaking, but not bruising, was “getting old and tiresome.” Damn Lloth. Damn them all.

I remember the jarring sensation of the shift from freedom of movement to restriction that the thick glass imposed, and the overflowing panic that followed. The feeling like I couldn’t breathe, even though the amount of air hadn’t changed for me, in water or not; it’s the same. My hands were split and raw from my helpless and pointless clawing and slamming against the translucent container. Racking about to try and topple the prison over or even just break a hole in it. Nothing I did mattered. 

It was my fault, she would tell me. If I had just listened and sung when she told me to, to the people she told me to, I wouldn’t be in here. The people were going to die one way or another, so it hardly mattered. It had been commanded of her to preserve her Goddess’ standing or hers. The book filled with names and faces of those dead by my hand in my head, never-ending.  The reality was that, like her goddess, it didn’t matter whether I obeyed or not; she craved inflicting pain and sowing chaos.

 The only escape I had from the killing song was my lyre. The only relief she provided me with. I was never allowed to sing outside of her instruction or supervision. If I did, one of the others would be punished, and I would have to watch, or I would be placed in the tank and forced to stay there for a week. Being fed like a fish in a damned bowl, food floating at the top and slowly sinking, while no one spoke to me or acknowledged my words or screams. So I play my lyre, over and over and over. It’s the only distraction I have besides drawing, and they help occupy my mind.

The cold chains around my wrists and ankles, the bare thread blanket that was more scraps of cloth than cover, to sit on, the “outfits” I was forced to wear which were more akin to body jewelry than anything deserving of the word “clothes”, and the cool granite floor made our room frigid. The wrist restraints made it hard to play, but I still did. I would practice until my fingers cracked and bled, and even then, I did not stop. If I stopped, the horrors of my surroundings would flood in. So I did what I had to do to block it out. Song after song, melody after melody, note after note. Small pools of blood from my fingertips had accumulated so many times that the stone was permanently stained with it. Dark crimson circles littered the floor at the foot of my bedroll, a witness and testament to my dedication and will.

I had forgone interacting with the other girls long ago; only pain and misery followed me. Mistress had made it crystal clear that anyone I was close to, or liked, would be in the line of fire. It was my fault; just existing insulted the very Drow race. She never held back. But I knew one day that all this would come to an end. It had to. And there were only two ways it would, with my death or hers. She just wasn’t aware of that fact, but I’d make sure she was. And if I were to be her end, I would ensure that all the pain wrought upon us would be returned tenfold and that my face would be reflected in her eyes with only unspeakable terror as company and that the last thing she sees is ME.