I return to the room after eight long dragging hours, the kind that stretch your mind thin, and I find her all bloodied, her fingers twisted and nails pulled out like tiny petals ripped from a dying flower. Her face swollen beyond recognition, one eye barely open, a busted lip leaking slow lines of red. Cuts and bruises everywhere, like someone painted her body with violence.
It wasn’t long ago when I heard her last scream echoing off the concrete walls, fading into the darkness like she was giving up piece by piece.
I told her it wasn’t going to be easy. She didn’t believe me then. Her head hangs low against her right shoulder now, neck too weak to hold anything up. She could barely see through the puffiness and dried blood, but when her eyes catch the sight of a perfectly set pair of r
