DAY ONE

The darkness wasn’t what scared me the most. It was a familiar comfort, a cloak I could pull around myself in times of trouble.

It was the silence. Thick and unnatural, like something alive. Like it was listening, waiting for me to make a sound, to betray any sign of fear or hope. The silence was a predator, and I was its prey, held captive in its suffocating grip.

My arms ached from where the zip ties had been. They were gone now—cut off sometime between the drive and this place—but the memory of their bite lingered, a constant, throbbing reminder of my helplessness. I could still feel the way they dug into my skin every time I shifted, how the plastic grated against bone. Phantom pain, my brain clinging to the trauma like it was afraid to let go, as if releasing the pain would somehow mean releasing the memory of being taken.

I hadn’t cried that first night. Not really. A few choked sobs had escaped me, but nothing more. I was too stunned, too busy trying to understand how I’d gone from walking through my apartment door, humming along to the radio, to waking up on cold concrete, the rusty tang of blood in my mouth. One minute, I was safe; the next, I was here, wherever here was.

The cot was an afterthought. So was the blanket. Ethan probably thought they were kindnesses, his version of care, a warped and twisted understanding of human decency. A thin mattress that sagged under my weight and smelled like mildew and stale sweat. A scratchy old blanket with a faded cartoon character on it — a grinning bear with a missing eye. Some relic of his childhood, maybe. Or someone else’s. A trophy.

He hadn't come back after locking the door behind him. Just left me here with nothing but the stained walls, the oppressive dark, and the faint whir of the camera in the ceiling corner. A mechanical insect, buzzing with silent judgment.

Always watching. Recording everything: my fear, my desperation, my slow descent into madness. I wondered if he replayed the recordings, getting some sick pleasure from my torment.

I turned away from it that night, curling into myself beneath the blanket, pulling my knees to my chest, pretending the cold didn’t cut to my bones, didn't seep into the marrow and freeze me from the inside out.

And that was when the silence started to press in — not loud like a scream, not a sudden, startling noise, but still deafening. It was the absence of sound, the complete and utter void, that amplified every thought, every fear, until they echoed in my skull like thunder. It was a silence that screamed louder than any shout. It was a silence that promised no escape.

DAY TWO

The silence was the worst. An oppressive blanket woven from my own fear and the stark reality of my isolation. I kept thinking someone would come. Logic, or what little I had left, told me it was impossible, but hope, that insidious little weed, refused to be uprooted.

Police. My brother. A neighbor. Anyone. Just a voice, a face, anything other than the cold, uncaring concrete walls. I clung to the possibility like a drowning person to a splinter of wood.

I screamed that morning, until my throat felt raw and useless, a broken instrument incapable of producing sound. Pounded on the walls with my fists until my knuckles split open, the pain a small, sharp distraction from the larger agony. I hadn’t realized how dry the air was until I tasted the blood, thick and metallic in my mouth, coating my tongue with the flavor of my own desperation. It felt like a cruel joke, an offering to the silence that answered only with its continued, unbroken presence. No one came. No one ever did.

Later, after the screaming subsided to whimpers and the pounding to a dull ache, I found the journal. It was just sitting there on the crate in the corner, looking out of place and yet unsettlingly familiar, like it had always belonged in this nightmare, patiently waiting for me to stumble upon it.

Mine. From high school. The blue ribbon bookmark, faded and frayed at the edges, still looped around a page halfway through — the page where I wrote about my first kiss. A clumsy, awkward, yet earth-shattering experience immortalized in ink. The handwriting looked foreign to me now, too soft, too hopeful, a relic from a life I no longer recognized. I had been so stupidly happy then, blissfully ignorant of the darkness that waited in the wings.

My hands trembled as I turned the yellowed pages, each one a painful reminder of what I had lost. I could feel myself slipping, not just mentally, but physically. The hunger had started to gnaw, slow and hot in the pit of my stomach, a constant, unwelcome companion. He’d left water, enough to keep my parched throat from closing completely. A little food, protein bars mostly, enough to keep my body functioning, a mockery of sustenance.

But not enough to make me feel human. Not enough to silence the roaring in my ears or to fill the cavernous emptiness inside me. The physical discomfort was nothing compared to the hollowness that threatened to swallow me whole.

That night, sleep offered a brief respite, a flickering flicker of warmth in the encroaching cold. I dreamed about the creek behind our old house. My brother and I used to dam it up with rocks and mud, transforming the tiny stream into a mighty river in our imaginations, pretending we were engineers or giants, whatever our childish whims dictated that day. The sun was always warm in those dreams, bathing the world in a comforting embrace. The light always golden, painting the trees and the water with an ethereal glow. His laughter echoed through the dream, a phantom sound that pierced the silence.

When I woke up, the light was gone. The dream evaporated like morning mist, leaving behind only the stark, cold reality. Just the camera, mounted high in the corner, blinking red in the oppressive darkness, a silent, unblinking eye recording my every move, a constant reminder that I was not alone, but utterly, irrevocably captive.

DAY THREE

He spoke to me through the door today. “Are you okay, love?”

His voice was soft, a gentle caress against the hard wood separating us. It held a fragile intimacy, the kind you'd expect whispered in the dark after a long day, in the sanctuary of a shared bedroom. It was the voice of someone checking in, concerned and familiar. It was a voice that hinted at something more, at a bond that used to exist, at a "we" that felt agonizingly distant now. It was a voice that expected a response, the kind of answer I used to give, unguarded and open. It was the voice addressing the girl who once, without hesitation and without regret, called him a friend.

But that girl was gone, or at least, she was buried deep beneath layers of hurt and disillusionment. I didn’t speak. The word "love" felt like a cruel mockery, a phantom limb of a connection that had been severed. My throat tightened, choked with words I couldn't, wouldn't, utter. I just stared at the sliver of shadow beneath the door, the only indication of his presence on the other side. I watched, unblinking, as the shadow receded, slowly, agonizingly, until it was gone, leaving only the cold, blank expanse of the door and the deafening silence in its wake.

DAY FOUR

I thought if I stayed quiet, stayed calm, I could outlast him. A foolish notion, perhaps born of desperation, but it was all I had. Silence and serenity, my only weapons in this twisted game. I clung to them like a lifeline, hoping they would somehow erode the walls around me, the invisible chains that bound me.

I rationed the food. A half-eaten granola bar, its chocolate coating melted and smeared. A few dry, crumbly crackers that tasted of dust and despair. A bottle of water I’d been sipping for days, each swallow measured and deliberate. I could feel my stomach gnawing at itself, a constant, low thrum of hunger that echoed in my head. I couldn’t tell if it was all part of the plan — let me starve slowly, weaken my body so my mind would follow. Was he trying to break me from the inside out, reducing me to a shell of my former self?

The journal was the only outlet I had, the only tether to sanity in this maddening isolation. But it didn’t feel like mine anymore. The words I wrote seemed hollow, distant, belonging to someone else. It felt like a joke, like some kind of cruel museum exhibit of the girl I used to be, a happier, more hopeful version of myself, now irrevocably lost. The entries were filled with mundane observations, cheerful anecdotes, things that felt alien now, like relics from a forgotten civilization.

I flipped to the back, past the carefully crafted sentences and optimistic declarations. I abandoned all pretense of eloquence and started writing in the margins, scribbling frantic, desperate pleas.

"You're not real." A defiant whisper against the oppressive reality of my confinement.

"He can't keep you forever." A fragile seed of hope planted in the barren landscape of my despair.

"Breathe. Eat. Survive." A mantra, a command, a desperate plea to my own failing body.

I repeated those three words until I wore through the ink, carving them into the pages, willing them to become truth. Breathe. Eat. Survive. The rhythm of survival, a fragile drumbeat against the deafening silence of my prison. Each phrase a tiny act of rebellion, a declaration that even in the face of utter hopelessness, something within me still refused to break. Still clung to the faintest glimmer of light. Still fought to live.

DAY FIVE

The binding cracked with a sharp, protesting sound as I tore the pages out. Each yank was a small, desperate act of rebellion, a futile attempt to claw back some control.

One by one.

I don’t even remember why, not really. The reason, whatever it was, felt vast and shifting, a shapeless monster in the dark. Maybe because the words on those pages didn't help, didn't offer any solace in this cold, echoing place. Maybe because they were lies, promises whispered in a world that had forgotten me. Or maybe, and this was the thought that clawed at the edges of my mind the most, maybe because if I didn’t destroy something, some tangible, physical thing, I was going to lose what little sanity I had left. Sanity, a fragile bird trapped in a cage, desperately fluttering against the bars.

They fluttered across the stone floor like snowflakes, each page a unique, fleeting shape. Falling so slowly, so gently, almost mockingly serene. They danced in the weak light filtering through the barred window, like they weren’t part of something violent, something born of rage and despair. They settled around my feet, a white carpet of broken hopes.

I threw the book at the wall. A dull thud echoed in the small room, a sound devoid of satisfaction. It bounced off the cold, unforgiving stone and landed near the cot, spine broken, pages splayed open like a wounded creature. It lay there, a testament to my failure, my impotence.

I curled up on the cot, knees drawn to my chest, a tight ball of misery. And I cried harder than I had since I got here. The sobs racked my body, each one tearing at my throat, a raw, ragged keening that echoed in the silence. Tears streamed down my face, hot and heavy, blurring the edges of my vision. They were tears of anger, of frustration, of utter, desolate loneliness. They were the tears of a broken thing, a thing that didn't know how to be whole again. The salt stung my lips, a bitter reminder of the endless, gnawing emptiness inside. All I could do was cry, lost in the darkness, surrounded by the ghosts of shattered words.

FLASHBACK: A SUMMER MORNING

We were chasing fireflies, our bare feet slapping against the cool, dewy grass. The humid air hung heavy, thick with the scent of honeysuckle and freshly cut grass. I was twelve, all elbows and knees, my laughter echoing through the twilight. Ben, my little brother, was eight, his boundless energy propelling him forward like a tiny, persistent hummingbird. Our mom stood on the porch, a silhouette against the warm light spilling from the kitchen window. She held a glass of sweet tea, the condensation dripping down her fingers in glistening trails, mirroring the tiny droplets clinging to the blades of grass. Dad grilled burgers in the backyard, the smoky aroma mingling with the sweet summer air. He hummed along to some old country song crackling from the portable radio, its melody a familiar and comforting backdrop to our summer evenings.

I’d just caught one – a little spark of summer magic, a tiny yellow-green light trapped between my fingers. I held my breath, mesmerized by the bioluminescent glow pulsing softly against my skin. It felt like I held the very essence of the season in my palm.

“Make a wish,” Ben said, his voice full of childish wonder, his eyes wide as he stared at the captured firefly. He believed in the magic of things, in the power of wishes carried on the wings of fireflies.

I closed my eyes, the image of the firefly embedded behind my eyelids, its light a persistent flicker. The sounds of summer enveloped me: the crickets chirping their nightly symphony, Dad's humming, Mom's gentle sigh on the porch, Ben's excited breathing beside me. I focused on the feeling of the warm air on my skin, the taste of summer on my tongue, the weight of the firefly in my hand. And then, I made my wish.

Let this summer never end. Let these perfect nights stretch on forever. Let us stay just like this, frozen in time, bathed in the golden glow of fireflies and the love of our family.