Chapter Fourteen
Time passes without interruption. No voices. No corrections. No hands repositioning me when my muscles fail. Only a silence lasting so long, my body braces anyway, waiting for pain that doesn’t come.
My shoulders burn. Whether my feet still exist is unclear—I can’t feel them.
I stay upright because the restraints don’t give me a choice. Gravity hasn’t been kind lately, and I don’t have the strength to negotiate with it anymore.
Still breathing, but barely. Shallow, wheezing gasps I can’t control. My thoughts drift in and out, none sticking long enough to hold onto.
My name surfaces once, then slips away. It doesn’t matter. Names belong to people, and I’m not sure I qualify anymore.
Footsteps pass outside the room, and my body tightens in reflex. Nothing follows.
The air doesn’t move. There’s no mechanical hum of a camera. No familiar undercurrent of sound. They’re not watching me anymore.
The quiet is so much worse.
But I’m still here. That feels…accidental.
When the door opens, I don’t lift my head. I wait for instructions, but there aren’t any.
Hands touch my restraints. They don’t adjust them or change anything. Just check each of them briefly and move on.
Someone takes my pulse and blood pressure, then exhales.
“She’s not there yet,” he says.
The words float away before I can catch them.
Another voice answers, flatter and almost…bored. “Log it and move on.”
The door closes. This time the lock sounds different. Lighter.
I drift, not fully here or fully gone.
The tension in my shoulders has nowhere to go. It settles into a deep, spreading ache. My breathing slips out of rhythm. I don’t notice until my chest starts to burn.
The silence screams louder than anything.
Whatever they needed from me, they’ve already taken it.
I stop trying to track…anything. I exist in pressure and breath and the dull expectation of pain that never quite arrives.
I don’t know how to let go, so I stay. Not because I want to, but because staying is the only thing my body knows how to do.
My chin drops. Catches. Drops again. I feel myself slipping, the effort required to hold myself here—mentally and physically—more than I have left.
I don’t fight it.
I don’t surrender to it either.
I just…don’t choose.
The last coherent thought I have isn’t hope or fear. It’s the quiet, stubborn fact that even now, with nothing left to offer, I’m still alive.