}home.

Everyone knows that there's seven layers of hell, and they saved me from the first one. Then, when they blackmailed me into the second layer, I was stuck.

Sure; they saved me. But saving a life of youth always has a repercussion in this world. May it be backstabbing or the sudden thought of protection that they seem to make use of by trapping you in their own layer of hell; every action you make has it's own price. It's a phrase that's used often in this world and a lot of people underestimate it. They'd shrug it off - think it's no big deal. "It won't happen to me!"

But look where I am now.

I've had my own taste of the first layer that they saved me from ; it was definitely a blessing that they saved me from it. Months of exile inside of concrete walls, confided to a space that could be fit for a small child.

But they are also the reason I had that first taste. I can't be mad at them. What I did was disgusting and cruel, it's a past that I'll never want to relive or think of again. But they made me endure that concrete wall and child fit space, shouldn't I be mad? It sucks when you love what breaks you, it really does.

Because here I am, escaping the hands of the first layer of hell,
but falling into the hands of what got me there the first time.