Samantha
I had been locked in my room for days now. The giant, metallic lock sliding firmly into place after my uncle shoved me in here two nights ago, the sound reverberating through the oppressive stillness of my bedroom. I paced the room, the thick carpet muffling my steps, while my thoughts swirled in a chaotic storm that matched the dark clouds gathering outside. The velvet curtains, elegant but inadequate, did little to shield the room from the heavy gloom of the impending downpour. My reflection in the ornate mirror caught my eye—disheveled hair, red-rimmed eyes, a face flushed with frustration. This wasn’t me. Not the version of Samantha Hendrix I was supposed to be.
The soft knock at the door was followed immediately by its opening, the lock offering no resistance to the control
