By Day Six, pain had become routine. Hunger gnawed, bruises ached, and thirst burned—but none of that terrified her anymore. What terrified her was how quickly she was forgetting what sunlight felt like.
The room swallowed her whole. That flickering bulb overhead became her sky. The mattress became her world. The shadows became her only company.
And the boys? They became gods in this prison. Cruel, laughing gods.
Day Seven
They began to play with silence. Hours of nothing, leaving her tied in the dark until her own mind betrayed her. She whispered her brother's name just to hear her own voice, to remind herself she still existed.
When they finally returned, they burst in with a roar, slamming the door, stomping their boots—she screamed like a cornered animal. They laughed until tears rolled down their cheeks.
"Look at her," one sneered. "She's already breaking."
Day Nine
They changed the rules. No more ropes during the day. Freedom—fake, poisonous freedom.
"Go on," the leader taunted, tossing her toward the door. "Run."
Her heart leapt. She scrambled forward, weak legs trembling as she reached for the handle. Her hands shook, sweat slicking her palms. She pulled.
Locked.
The boys howled with laughter. One of them kicked her so hard she crumpled to the floor, wheezing for breath.
"See? You can't leave. You'll never leave."
That night she curled into herself, sobbing, realizing hope itself was now a weapon they used against her.
Day Eleven
They brought in mirrors. Cracked, filthy, but mirrors. They forced her to stare at herself.
Her reflection was no longer hers. Hollow eyes, cracked lips, bruises painting her skin in sickly blues and purples. They mocked her, imitating her cries, telling her she looked like a corpse already.
"Your brother won't even recognize you," one whispered. "You're not his sister anymore. You're nothing."
The mirror shattered when she tried to throw it. The shards scattered across the floor like teeth, gleaming under the bulb. She wasn't punished for it. They wanted her to see them every time she moved, every time she crawled. Temptations sharp enough to end her misery.
She thought about it. More than once.
Day Thirteen
Sleep became the worst torture of all. Dreams gave her moments of freedom—her brother's voice, her mother's cooking, the sunlight through her bedroom window. But waking up meant remembering it was all gone.
And when the boys caught her drifting into sleep, they jolted her awake with ice water. Laughter, always laughter.
By then her mind was unraveling. She spoke to the walls, whispered to the shadows, begged invisible figures to take her home.
The boys only watched, recording her on their phones.
Day Fifteen
She no longer screamed when they entered. She no longer begged when they starved her. She no longer cried when they hit her.
She sat still. Silent. Staring.
The leader leaned close, studying her face. "See? We told you. You're nothing. You belong to us now."
But in her silence, something stirred. Not hope. Not strength. Just one final fragile thought: My brother will come. He has to.
Meanwhile, that same night, her brother tore through another police station, fists clenched, voice hoarse from shouting. Every door slammed in his face. Every word from authority felt like knives.
"She's gone.""She ran away.""Let it go."
But he couldn't. He wouldn't.
Because somewhere out there, his sister was still alive. And every second she lived in hell was another second he carved into his memory—a debt that would one day be paid in blood.