“Please… just tell me. Tell me if my son is alive,” I whisper.
She doesn’t answer. Not right away, at least. She just stands there staring me down with that unreadable expression. The silence stretches, heavy and suffocating. The walls around me slowly close in. I can feel the edge of a panic attack rising like a tide, threatening to pull me under at any second to drown me in my own fear and sorrow.
“I need to know, ” I rasp. “I need to know if he’s alive or if they already… if they…”
The wordkilledlodges in my throat like a piece of broken glass.
A sound escapes me, somewhere between a gasp and a sob. My body curls inward as if instinctively trying to protect something that’s already been taken. I grip my midsection, arms wrapped so tight around my body I can barely breathe, as if I can physically hold in the grief.
My entire world starts caving in around me. The thought that I might never get to hold Leo again—never hear his voice, never see his smile, never get the chance to sayI love youone more time—it crushes me.
“I don’t even care what you have to say. Justtell me.Please. Please tell me what they’ve done to him.”
There’s a long pause, and then something shifts in her face. Her mouth parts just slightly. Her shoulders lower, tension slowly unraveling from where it had been coiled. Her voice is quiet when it finally comes. “I saw him. Hour ago. I check his vitals. He is alive.”
The sob in my throat catches mid-breath, and I stare at her like I’m not sure I heard her right. I swallow, my whole body still shaking. “You’re sure?”
She nods slowly. “He is healthy. Tired, but… alive.”
Relief crashes over me so fast I nearly collapse. I have to reach for the edge of the bedframe where I’m usually chained to steady myself. I grip the cold metal like it might hold me together while the world around me spins. The tears don’t stop, but now they’re different.
They flow harder, faster, but they’re no longer falling from despair. They fall because I can breathe again.
My son is still alive.
“Thank you,” I whisper to her. “Thank you, thank you, thank you…”
She hesitates for a long moment before carefully setting the bundle of clothes down at the foot of my bed. They’re simple—plain cotton with a neutral color, a pair of pants and a T-shirt. It isn’t much, but it’s a gesture of decency I haven’t seen in days.
When she straightens up again, her eyes glance down at thescalpel clutched between her fingers. She hesitates for a heartbeat, then extends it toward me, handle first. “For you.”
My breath catches. “What?”
She swallows hard, and in that moment I see it—the same fear in her that’s been in me since I woke up in this nightmare. She’s terrified. Not of me, not anymore, but ofthem.She’s not giving me a weapon to hurt her. She’s handing me something she’s not allowed to use but desperately hopes I will.
Is this real?
Or is this another test, another manipulation wrapped in kindness meant to gauge how far I’ll go?
“You will know when to use it,” she murmurs.
Then, without warning, she gently takes my hand in both of hers. She curls my fingers around the handle of the scalpel firmly as if to make sure I feel the decision she’s placing in my grasp. She squeezes once, brief but certain in a silent exchange. Then she lets go.
And just like that, she turns and slips back out the door. The lock clicks into place, soft and final.
I sit there, motionless, still clutching the scalpel in my hand like it might vanish if I blink too hard. My breath stutters in and out, shallow, uneven pulls that make me start to get lightheaded.
Slowly, I look down and open my palm.
Holy shit.She gave me a way out. Or at least the chance of one.
The metal glints in the light, a fragile, deadly promise resting against my skin.
She’s gifted me a chance at freedom.
I move fast, panic nipping at my heels. If anyone walks in right now and sees me clutching this thing, I’m done for. I shove the scalpel into the seam on the side of the thin mattress where the top and bottom pieces are sewn together, forcing my fingers deep into the fabric until I feel metal springs. Once it’s good and wedged in there, I sit up and smooth my sheets back over it, tucking the corners neatly.
If they search the room for anything, it’ll be the last place they look.