I have no hope.
I have no fear.
I am nothing.
I don’t shiver.
I don’t react.
I’m not even sure I’m breathing.
Jarod tosses me on the bed, and I don’t move, not even to cover my naked body or gain warmth.
My eyes are open, but I don’t see the men standing over me. I see nothing except darkness. Am I dead or dying?
They say you see a white light before you die, that your entire life flashes before your eyes. That isn’t my experience. I see nothing but gloom and death.
“Is she dead?” a voice asks.
“No,” Jarod answers.
I’m not dead. I almost feel like crying at that, but I don’t. I’m still alive, and as much as I wish I were nothing, I still have hopes and dreams. My dreams are no longer shiny and pleasant. I hope to be dead.
“She’s broken,” Jarod says.
What? Broken? I’m not broken. Am I?
“Broken.” The word travels through the men like a ghost of a whisper. Each mutters it, not sure that it is true until he gets a chance to speak the word himself.
Broken.
I’m not broken. I feel no different from before. My wounds might be worse, and I might die if I don’t recover, but I’m not broken.
Never.
But one by one they test the word themselves.
Broken.
Broken.
Broken.
Each time they say the word, I begin to believe it myself more and more.
I’m broken.
They finally broke me.
This is what it feels like.
“Does that mean…?” one of the men asks tentatively.
“Yes, we can go home now. Our job is done,” Jarod answers.
What?
Their job was to keep me until they broke me. That makes no sense.