Chapter 2 2

DRIP. Drip. Drip. I measure my breaths with each little ping of water in the otherwise silent room. It's the only other sign of life, save for the organ in my chest that just won't quit. I'm pretty sure if I could just will it to stop, I would, and I don't mean the dripping. It's been a long while since I feared I'd go mad from that sound. It's the silence I dread now. The moment that dripping stops, and I'm left alone with nothing more than my own thoughts. I can only hope my heart gives out first. I hum quietly under my breath, using the slow drip-drip-drip like a metronome to keep count.

At my sides, my fingertips idly tap against my thighs as I stare blankly up at the ceiling, letting my mind wander, chasing some distant, forgotten melody. The stone ground is cold and hard under my back, but I barely pay it any notice. After eating my meager scraps-the first meal I've been given inwhat feels like days but might have only been hours; it's impossible to tell -I was too worn out to crawl over to my cot. So I collapsed where I sat, dead center in my eight-by-eight feet cell. Inhaling deeply, I wince when my stomach cramps. I hope the stew they gave me wasn't bad, but I wouldn't put it past these assholes to poison me with spoiled meat. They knew I'd devour it regardless. I already learned the hard way where not eating would get me. So long as I'm a good little girl and do as I'm told, they won't punish me. Not that I'm really told anything. Other than the time I made my escape, I haven't actually seen or spoken to a single soul. And the longer I fight off sleep, the longer I have to wait for food. Whoever delivers it-either Corvin or one of the twins, I assume-only enters my cell now when I'm unconscious. I guess they learned their lesson too when I broke free that day. I frown, knowing something about that isn't right. Wasn't I alone when that happened? But I'm still too exhausted, too hungry, to try and make sense of any of it. Nothing makes sense anymore, not here in this hole in the ground where the air is cold, but stale. All I can rely on is that stupid fucking drip-dripdrip. Even my body no longer feels like mine. It hasn't since I woke up. At least...not since the first time I remember waking up. Who knows how many other times I broke consciousness, only to lose recollection of it in a drug-induced fog? My eyes drift downward, taking in the smattering of fading bruises and scabs the size of a pin-prick peeking out through the dirt caking my arms. Track marks, I think dully. Lovely. My eyes linger on the tattoo on my wrist.Normally I'd have it hidden with bracelets, or last I remember, covered up with concealer. I flip my arm over and blink up at the ceiling, making peace with the pang in my chest and the lump that I can't swallow away no matter how many times I try. It's dark in here, but either my eyes have adjusted, or there's light coming in from somewhere other than just the grate in the ceiling. A grate that looks into some room above that remains mostly dark, and always quiet, with the exception of occasional footsteps. Then again, maybe I just imagined it. Another lingering side effect of the drugs, just like the weird shadows that hover along the edges of my vision. Or you're just dying. The thought brings a weary sigh to my lips. I don't know what drugs they were pumping into my system, but I miss them. I miss that endless nothingness where I stopped existing. With the exception of when they dragged me back in here after finally making a break for it, it's been a while since I've been knocked out. I swallow thickly as I remember waking up fully that first time, however many days or weeks ago, and realized what was going on as it all came rushing back to me. The panic that overtook my body... My eyes slide shut, and I focus on the music playing in my head instead. Count my breaths in time with each note. Sniffing, I go to reach up and wipe my nose when my fingers brush against the paper. Rolling my head, I blink slowly at the litter of origami birds surrounding me, adjusting the one I just knocked over so it's once more in an upright position, its pointed little beak facing toward me.The first time I found one sitting next to my dinner tray, I hurriedly opened it, hoping there was some message inside. Something offering a clue as to where I was, or, even more far-fetched, reassurance. Help. Like I was in some movie or book instead of living out an actual nightmare. It shouldn't have upset me when I found that it was nothing more than a blank, now-crinkled white sheet of paper. Completely and totally fucking useless. Mocking, even. I screamed that day. Screamed a lot. I banged my fists on the walls until I bled, cursed the world out, and even threw my dinner across the cell, hitting the cobbled stone wall with a clatter of hard plastic and a wet splat. It felt like an interminable amount of time before they attempted to feed me again after that. So long that I vaguely remember giving in and scraping what smelled like rotten stew off the floor once the hunger pains became too much to ignore. It wasn't my proudest moment, nor my smartest if my bowels or the stench I've long since stopped noticing were anything to go by. The next time a paper bird showed up, I squeezed it in my hand as I scarfed down my meal, so tight the sharp edges dug little grooves into my palm that lasted throughout the day... or however many hours it was before I passed out from sheer exhaustion and an over-full belly. When I woke up, the tray was gone, but the slightly warped bird was still clasped in my hand, tucked safely against my chest. At first, I thought I could track time in here by how many birds I collected. But I soon realized how futile it was, when time between meals stretched and shrunk for seemingly no rhyme or reason. Sometimes, what feels like days separate one meal from the next. Other times, it feels like the literal blink of an eye-one meal being exchanged foranother while I sleep. It's taught me to sleep any chance I get, all in the hopes that when I wake up, I'd either find myself in my own bed back home, or there'd be a tray of food waiting for me. Even then, though, I don't always wake up to more food. Those are the times I wish I didn't wake up at all. I move my eyes around the space next to me, taking in my collection. Sixteen birds. I've been awake now for sixteen birds. Probably more than that, but the birds are all I have to go by. Still humming, I reach out a sluggish hand, clasping the one nearest to me. My newest addition. Taking great care not to bend its fragile wings, I bring it to sit on my chest as I stare back up at the dark ceiling. Petting its paper beak with shaky fingertips, I hum more loudly, my voice cracking so much, I've long since gotten used to it. I already chugged down the little cup of water they provided with my meal, unable to help myself. My eyelids grow heavy as sleep once again pulls me under, the music slowing and ebbing into something even less tangible in my head. Senseless images and thoughts trickle in, and I don't fight it. While I can't ever guarantee what will happen when I wake, I know it'll at least bring me that much closer to either food... Or death.