I ignore it.
I haven’t eaten since this morning, before I left camp. The decision to risk angering Dane to take a chance at finding the healing waters feels like days ago now. After even just a brief rest, the shock of the day is wearing off and Edmond’s lessonsflood to the surface of my mind as if only to avoid the thought of hunger.
Observation is the first part, and I already know a good amount of my location. I’m near a beach, in a structure with three levels that seem to be made of wood. There’s a guard at my door, and I am completely closed off to everything except for the slot in the door where they feed me.
And they’re being kind. I can almost hear Edmond’s voice warning me not to fall for kindness, as it is the easiest way to get someone comfortable and trusting enough to get what they want. The beating I’d take for information is almost preferable, instead of sitting and waiting to see how they are going to act next.
I glance over at the plate and push it away.
Don’t trust the food.
Edmond would repeat the phrase randomly throughout our lesson. I can’t rule out poison, especially since there is no one else in the room eating with me. Even if they do not intend to give me enough to kill me, it could be just enough to make me miserable, and eventually talk.
But I won’t talk.
I ignore both the food and the sinking feeling in my stomach begging me to eat it while I look around at my prison. There are no windows, and the only door is the one I am leaning against.
Know your resources.
The room is barren, but there must be something in here I can use to my advantage, especially after they stripped me of all my weapons. I stand and circle the room slowly, looking for anything I can use. A loose floorboard, a nail sticking out from the wall, but otherwise there is nothing. Even the cot is bolted to the floor, so I can’t try to break it and have a weapon.
I look back at my wooden plate when my eyes snag on the glass bottle. I snatch it off the floor and look around forsomething to hit it on. The guard would be alerted to the sound of the shatter, but at least I’ll have a weapon to fight.
There’s nothing in the room besides the bed and the wall, so I walk over to it and, with all my strength, slam the bottle into the corner of the bed.
It bounces right off.
“What the…” I mutter to myself and try again, the loud bang echoing through the room. It’s still not breaking. I freeze when I hear the chair shift and footsteps approach the door. The bottle is too small to be used as a club. The only way it would be useful is if it had sharp edges, but at this rate, it won’t.
I wait until the steps retreat again and the chair creaks as the guard sits back down.
Back to square one.
I toss the bottle back onto the floor by the plate and keep looking around the room. The woman was right. A small washroom is directly behind the panel, seemingly for privacy. A small wooden basin with a spout hangs off the wall, and I walk over quickly, placing my hands under it.
Clear water trickles into my cupped hands, and I greedily slurp it. The cool water slides down my throat, and I instantly feel refreshed. They can’t poison what is coming out of the wall, especially since it seems like the same magic that runs camp. I can at least survive for a while with water. I just need to get past the initial hunger pangs.
After checking the rest of the room and coming up empty, I settle back down on the floor at the foot of the cot, my back pressed against the wall. I refuse to give them any satisfaction from using the comforts they offer, so sleeping on the floor will have to do.
I’m going to need to come up with a different plan, since all I have at my disposal is water. I may not be able to fight my way out, but I can still try to escape. Closing my eyes, I takesome deep breaths and focus, hunkering down inside myself and steeling my emotions to the outside world.
I am not alone. I have a family waiting for me back at camp, and Fin somewhere around here. I have Dane. I will get through this, and I will get out. I have been overlooked and underestimated for most of my life. In the throne room, in the training rings, in our kingdom politics, but I am stronger than they think.
Weston will not break me, no matter how hard he tries.
Meals keep sliding through the panel in the door, but I leave them untouched from my spot on the floor. I can feel my body weakening as I lay here, trying to expend as little energy as possible.
The wooden boards are extremely uncomfortable, and my muscles scream at me with every movement, but I refuse to use the cot. The only time I get up is to take drinks of water and keep myself hydrated. I mourn for all the strength and endurance I built up over my time on the island as it disintegrates with my lack of food and movement.
Time passes, but I can’t quantify it because I sleep most of it away. It’s the best way to ignore the hunger, to preserve what little energy I have, and ignore anyone who might come in here.
They must know I am not eating. My plates get pulled back through the panel completely untouched. They are either trying to see who will break first, or weakening me as much as they can so that when the torture comes, I will break. Because there’s no more kindness. There’s no more contact, just complete isolation in this room.
At least I’m used to being alone.
But I always had Edmond and Brynne. I was extremely lonely, but never as overtly alone as I am now, except for the guard constantly stationed outside my door.
I lay on the floor in the dark, eyes closed but awake, with no way of knowing what time of day it is, whether it is day or night, or how many it has been. I could have counted the meals, but I don’t know how many were brought and taken away while I slept. The number of days doesn’t matter.
