In that place, the light was never enough, as darkness followed her everywhere. It was that invisible accusing finger, that little voice that scolded her, the part that rebelled against her ego and stubbornness, yet remained hidden deep within, for it was hard to admit she had been wrong.

She still thought it was unfair that she was there, in that damp place—neither aesthetic nor comfortable, and, in her eyes, filthy. No matter how much they cleaned it, she found it repulsive.

"You think you’re so special, idiot!" A woman with a bully’s face approached Ariadna, whose face was still partially covered. She was in the prison bathroom, surrounded by a group of inmates.

"Get away from me, filthy rats!" she confronted them, emboldened and haughty, but they all began to laugh.

"What should we do with you for your insolence?" one of them responded, licking her lips in anticipation.

Minutes later, Ariadna lay on the cold, dirty floor, beaten, her facial wound bleeding. Tears streamed down her