AMANDA
I don’t know how many days it’s been since I’ve been locked up here.
Again.
I think I’ve lost count.
At first, I tried. Scratched little lines into the cold, filthy floor. Counted the times the door creaked open, the soft clink of glass, the warm press of his fingers against my lips as he forced me to drink.
But at some point, the days stopped making sense. They blurred together, bleeding into one long, endless night. Or maybe it’s always been night. I don’t know anymore.
I don’t know anything.
I try to move. I can’t.
My fingers twitch against the cold stone floor, weak, useless. I squeeze my eyes shut, try to reach—**for my power, for anything, for myself—**but it’s gone. Ripped out. Stolen.
I choke on my breath. I press my forehead to the floor, hating how cold it fee
