Communication

I haven't told you anything yet, but the evidence speaks for itself.
The bruises on my face-- indeed, all over my body-- speak of the torture, the beating, the endless failed attempts to recondition my brain. My haunted, burning eyes speak of the terror and hate I felt time and time again. My bleeding fists tell of the hours I spent pounding, banging, pleading, screaming soundlessly as skin broke and blood spilled.
The shadows of the cell where you found me hide secrets, too. They whisper of the time I spent screaming at the air. The time spent pleading, sobbing, begging, praying for someone to let me out, to save me, to end this. The hours of silence and pain and exhaustion, throat too sore to speak, brain too numb to think.
The marks on the wall nearly tell the rest of the story. The deep claw marks tell of the frustration and pain, the attempts to break out, the mindless slashing and plunging and thrashing. The large, deeply-cut letters on the wall proclaiming my identity, carved out of fury and spite and desperation, tell of rage and the brain-numbing waves of mind-control-fighting over and over again.
I haven't said anything about any of it yet, but my silence is louder than my words. When I can speak again, you will hear of the gratefulness and freedom I felt when you found me, but my eyes will tell you of the fear and hate still in my heart. I'll say I don't want to talk about it, but you'll know about all of it once you find out communication isn't just words.