1
BRYLEE
The first fewweeks after I was rescued from my initial kidnapping, I would wake up screaming—a bloodcurdling scream that I’m sure half the castle could hear.
Mom insisted I see a therapist, which I agreed to, albeit reluctantly.
The therapist would ask me what I dreamt about.
I could never remember the details explicitly, only the sensation.
Drowning.
It always felt like I was drowning.
It starts with silence.
Not the peaceful kind, but the heavy, swallowing kind—the kind that seems to press against your skull from every direction.
Then comes the cold, which slices at your skin like broken glass, closing around your chest, your limbs, your throat. Instinctscreams for air, and your body obeys before your mind can stop it—lungs expanding, drawing in not breath, but water.
It burns, but it doesn’t necessarily feel like fire. It’s colder, crueler, a biting type of torture to know your own body’s turning against you. The world blurs into streaks of light and shadow, sound dissolving into a distant thrum, and your muscles begin to thrash, searching for the surface that’s already vanished somewhere above.
There’s a moment—a heartbeat of defiance—where panic peaks, then falters.
Movements slow.
The edges of thoughts dissolve.
The water, once an enemy, becomes almost tender. Rocking you. Cradling you.
Then, the pressure fades, along with the need to fight. Come to think of it, everything fades, until all that’s left is quiet.
It ends with silence.
All these thoughts flit through my mind now as I come to and find myself bouncing over the shoulder of my captor like a sack of potatoes.
I’m…drowning.
Drowning. Drowning. Drowning.
In fear.
In panic.
In memories.
A single tear cascades down my cheek as memories assault me.
Cold chains biting into my wrists.
Rough hands grasping at my skin.
The slice of a knife.
“Don’t bother to fight, little Princess.”
I won’t survive this hell again.
