ELENA POV
Month Four Since Waking
The nightmares were getting worse.
Not more frequent. But more vivid. More detailed.
I'd wake up gasping, drenched in sweat, the images still burned into my mind.
A concrete floor. Bloodstains.
Hands on me. Hurting me.
A voice. Brighton's voice.
"You're mine. You'll always be mine."
The memories were coming back. Slowly. In pieces.
But they were coming.
And with each one, my resolve hardened.
I was getting stronger physically. Could walk without the cane now. Could run short distances. Could do a hundred push-ups without stopping.
My body was healing.
My mind was something else entirely.
Dr. Patel called it PTSD. Called it depression. Called it a normal response to trauma.
But it wasn't normal.
Because normal people didn't spend every waking moment planning revenge.
Normal people didn't research their torturer obsessively.
Normal people didn't lie awake at night imagining all the ways they could make someone suffer.
