he days blurred together, yet she still counted. Numbers were the last fragments of control she clung to. Her captors thought they had stolen everything, but she would not give them her mind—not yet.
Day 26
Her body no longer responded the way it once did. When they dragged her up by the hair, her legs buckled, refusing to hold her weight. They mocked her weakness, tying her arms to the ceiling and leaving her hanging like a discarded doll. Hours passed. Her wrists bled. Her shoulders burned. She prayed for unconsciousness, but her body clung stubbornly to pain.
Day 27
The house filled with music and laughter—friends of her captors came over. She became their entertainment. They paraded her in front of the strangers like an object, showing her bruises, her burns, her scars. Each laugh stabbed deeper than any blade. One of them whispered, "She's not even human anymore." She closed her eyes and imagined she was far away, but the chains always dragged her back.
Day 28
Water became a weapon. They forced her head into a bucket, holding it down until her lungs screamed for air. She thrashed, bubbles rising, the world narrowing into black. Just when death reached for her, they yanked her up, coughing and choking. Her chest ached. Her throat burned. And then they laughed, pushing her down again. Over and over. Life itself became a cruel toy in their hands.
Day 29
Her hair was hacked off with scissors. Strands fell to the floor like pieces of her identity. They shaved her unevenly, mocking her once-proud appearance. She stared at her reflection in a broken shard of glass: hollow eyes, pale skin, bones pressing through. She didn't recognize the girl staring back. She looked like a ghost, already half-buried in the earth.
Day 30
They forced her to write letters—letters claiming she had run away, that she was fine, that no one should look for her. With trembling hands, she obeyed, the paper stained with her tears. She knew these lies would spread, and the thought of her brother believing them was worse than death. "Don't believe it," she whispered into the air, as if her words could fly beyond the walls.
Day 31
Pain returned, sharper than ever. One of them pressed a heated iron against her thigh. The scream tore through her throat, raw and primal. The smell of burning flesh filled the room. She collapsed after, shaking, sweat mixing with blood. Her body was a canvas of suffering, painted with cruelty.
Day 32
They starved her again, but this time, they ate in front of her—roasted chicken, steaming rice, cold drinks. The aroma was torture, the sound of chewing unbearable. When she begged, they threw scraps into a filthy bowl and pushed it toward her with their feet. She hesitated… but hunger was stronger than pride. On all fours, she devoured the scraps, sobbing between bites.
Day 33
The cold crept in. They stripped her of clothing and left her on the floor, shivering against the concrete. The night was merciless, her body wracked with tremors. Every gust of wind through the cracked window was a blade against her skin. She whispered her brother's name, clinging to the thought of his warmth, his voice.
Day 34
Her voice grew hoarse from crying. She called out, begged, pleaded for mercy, but the only answer was laughter—or worse, silence. That day, they ignored her entirely. Left her chained, hungry, thirsty, alone. The silence was heavier than the pain. She realized then: they didn't even see her as human. She was just a broken toy.
Day 35
Hope was a dying ember. Her body was frail, skin stretched thin over bone. She could barely move, barely breathe. But when the night grew still, she closed her eyes and whispered a final prayer.
"Brother… please find me. Please don't forget me."
Her words floated into the darkness, fragile as ash. She didn't know if he heard, but she clung to the belief that somewhere, beyond these walls, his heart was burning with fire.
And that fire would come for them all.