The days- or nights? - became more and more reliant on her imagination. Colors, faces… they became concepts too abstract to hold on to. Even in sleep, Stephanie felt like she was being pulled apart at the edges, drained.
***
“Please,” she said, one day.
She could barely hear her own voice in the void that was her prison. It cracked and wavered, falling flat against the walls. Heat brimmed behind her eyes, but no tears fell. There wasn’t enough moisture left in her to feed them.
“Oh,” she whispered. “Please.”
YOU ARE READING
Instinct
WerewolfIt only takes thirty sunless days in a twelve by twelve foot cell for the color to leech from her memories; the further six hundred and ten are just salt in the wound for nineteen-year-old Stephanie Armstrong. Her perception has been warped beyond...
