Shadowed

XXVII. Redeemed

ABBY

I don't scream when I get shot anymore.

I'm pretty sure that's why they stopped bringing pistols. They're looking for different ways to make me break. So far nothing's worked.

I have seven bullet wounds so far, mostly on my arms and legs. They're not trying to kill me. Only cause excruciating pain.

There are knife cuts, too. Across my torso. There's one ugly one slashing my cheek. Some on my hands. One time, Delia threatened to make me like my brother if I wouldn't scream when she cut me. I didn't scream.

That was one finger gone. She threw it into the corner of my cell, and I haven't touched it. It's starting to smell and fester. 

The wound on my hand stings and burns, but it doesn't bother me. If Drew can live with four fingers, I can live with nine.

Sometimes it's kind of difficult to ignore. It hasn't stopped hurting, not even for a second, even though I change the bandages every day and reapply salve to the bloody stump. 

I check the bandages constantly. Wiley taught me well. And it's not like there's anything else for me to do in this hellish cell.

I won't check them when the Hunters come, though. They're the ones who brought me the bandages, but if they catch me actually using them, they'll take it as a sign of weakness for them to exploit.

I made that mistake once. I won't make it again. Whenever I hear them coming, I tear off all of my bandages and hide them in my bra. The Hunters might try to humiliate me, but they've never gone so far as to strip me naked.

Right now my entire side aches and a large purple bruise is spreading across my skin, from Jade's new weapon of choice, an enormous metal hammer. She slams it into my hip bone again and again, and I have to grit my teeth and ignore the flames licking up my body every time it swings back down on the raw skin.

But holding in a scream when they're hurting me is easy. It's when they taunt me, tell me what they've done to my brother, to Angella, even to Rowan's corpse, that I have to bite down hard on my tongue and pray that my eyes aren't giving away how furious I am.

I've already been weak in front of them once. They take every opportunity to remind me of how I collapsed, half dead, barely breathing, in the torture room.

I won't be weak again. If I scream or cry, they win. The only way I can gain the upper hand is by not letting them get to me at all.

I'm good at being stone cold. Not as good as Maya, but I'm getting there. I can keep the facade up until they leave. 

Then I'll slump against the wall, shaking and breathing hard, trying to calm my racing heartbeat and ease whatever throbbing injury they gave me this time.

There's a little knife, for popping out bullets. Three of them, crusted with blood, lie in the corner next to my severed finger.

There's a roll of cloth bandages, which I have to tear with my bare hands. That's only gotten harder now that one of my hands stings with pain every time I move it. But if they draw blood, I know I have to wrap it right away. I refuse to die here.

And then there's the salve, which I'm not sure how helpful it is. It burns every time it touches an open cut, which is promising. There's probably some sort of antiseptic in it, but it's been several days and a lot of my wounds still hurt like they're fresh.

I wouldn't put it past the Hunters to give me something that heals the cuts, but keeps me in agony for as long as possible. 

Dead is no good to them. They want you alive and in pain. They'll push your body to the limit, just to see how much you can take before you collapse. Or before you beg.