The cell reeked of sweat, blood, and damp concrete. Her voice was weak, almost gone, but her mind still counted. Numbers were all she had left to measure the nightmare. Numbers, and the hope her brother might still be looking for her.
Day 16
Her body had become a map of bruises, purple blotches covering her arms, ribs, and legs. Every breath was pain. That day, the bullies decided she no longer owned herself. They held her down and carved mocking words into her skin with broken glass. The sharp sting was unbearable, but the laughter echoing in her ears cut deeper than the glass ever could. She curled into a ball when they left, whispering, "Don't break… don't break."
Day 17
They dragged her into the living room and played music. The song was upbeat, cheerful, wrong in every way. "Dance for us," one of them said. When she refused, a fist crashed into her stomach, knocking the breath from her lungs. She stumbled and swayed while they jeered, forcing her body to move. Every movement was humiliation, every laugh from them was a knife. By the end, she collapsed, sobbing.
Day 18
They crammed her into a wooden storage box, too small for her to move. Hours turned into an eternity. Darkness closed in, her knees bent painfully against her chest. She scratched at the wood, gasping for air, her mind teetering on the edge of madness. The sound of their footsteps outside the box was a reminder that she was completely at their mercy.
Day 19
When they let her out, she begged for water, for food, for anything. Instead, they threw scraps on the floor—half-eaten leftovers, dropped like waste for a dog. "Eat, animal," they sneered. She hesitated, pride choking her throat. But hunger won. On her hands and knees, she ate off the floor as they recorded her humiliation, laughter filling the room.
Day 20
Hope was dangled in front of her like a cruel trick. One of them whispered, "We'll let you go tonight, if you behave." Her heart surged. She obeyed every order, stayed silent, endured every insult. When night fell, she stood at the door trembling with expectation. Then they slammed it shut and locked it again, howling with laughter. The betrayal shattered something inside her.
Day 21
That night, fire became their new toy. They lit a cigarette and pressed the burning tip against her arm. Her scream pierced the air. The smell of scorched flesh rose, mixing with the reek of blood. They called it a "tattoo," branding her with pain. She clutched her arm when they were gone, tears blinding her vision, whispering her brother's name like a prayer.
Day 22
They refused her sleep. Buckets of water splashed on her whenever she drifted off. Loud music blared through the night, shaking the thin walls. Her eyelids burned, her head spun, her mind frayed. She begged them to stop. They only smiled. "Stay awake," they said. "Stay awake and suffer."
Day 23
Morning brought a new cruelty. They showed her photos on their phones—classmates smiling, eating ice cream, celebrating birthdays. They forced her to watch videos of her school, life moving on without her. Her chest ached with longing, a silent scream tearing her apart inside. She realized the world outside hadn't even noticed she was gone.
Day 24
They demanded she beg for food. On her knees, hands clasped like a prayer, she whispered, "Please… just a little." They tossed crumbs on the dirty floor and laughed as she crawled to pick them up. One of them filmed her, saying, "Look at her now. Look at the proud girl reduced to nothing." The humiliation was worse than hunger.
Day 25
Her body was frail, her spirit nearly gone. She whispered to the ceiling, to the walls, to herself. "Brother… find me… please." Her voice was faint, but her hope was not fully dead. Somewhere deep inside, a flame flickered—the belief that he would come. But outside that cell, her brother didn't yet know the depth of horror she endured.
For her, every day was hell. For him, the storm was only beginning.