Characters belong to The author, Stefanie Meyer, The rest belong to yours truly.

Writing this entirely for constructive criticism. Please Review.

Naedie

One

Light. one side of my skull then the other. Piercing.

Pain. My teeth grit.

"A good reaction." That voice. my mind reels, It sounds like pain, He is pain.

I go still. I feel awareness drain away, I willingly fall back into the darkness. Escape.

Light. Pain.. My scream are quickly muffled, cold water poured over my face. I choke.

I see the black, calling. I want to run to it. to hide in its depth in my mind.

I know better.

I'm here to stay. Pain beckons.

…

Light. Red on my closed lids. Bright but not painful.

Cold, smooth. I'm on the table. Skin, my skin, my hand strapped down but I can feel my thigh. Cool, soft. My eyes blink open, I can see the light, the source, above me on the ceiling. All white, The room is bare. Like all my time here, I am bare. I have almost lost all sense of propriety, I don't care who sees me now.

They don't see what I see.

I breathe, the slight sound of my drip is impossible to hear, no matter how I try. The almost non existent echo in the empty room soothing to my disoriented brain whenever woke and needed to drift back to sleep.

It must have run out. Odd. Never have they forgotten, never have I awoken, at least not to this extent. Always I have been groggy, only able to sense my surroundings briefly before the bag, hanging by my head, filled with something light pink started filling my system with a fresh wave of sleep.

Not this time.

My skin prickles in fear at the unknown.

I watch the door.

…

I wake.

I don't know how long it has been. sense of time has been lost. Days could be hours, weeks. I have no clue. the idea at first was I woke every few hours when the bag ran out. But I realised I was wrong.

The bags were numbered, I didn't connect at first. I remember feeling hopeful, like I might crack some code. Escape. I was just desperate. Naive.

Bag numbers. bags into me.

I woke anywhere between every five bags to ten bags, numbers jumping. I remember seeing 22. I had no idea what it meant. Then 37, 59 72. At every ten bags the would wake me. They'd test My skin, my pain tolerance. reactions. I was never uncuffed from the table.

They took blood too, soo much of it. Not from the vein, rather cutting my arms, inside my thighs, my ankles. Too groggy and in too much pin to really care. I have no idea when I last recognised this room, when I last opened my eyes to really see.

I watch the door.

…

I wake again.

I am sore. My back is aching, my shoulder blades dig into the table. I can lift my head to look down at myself, I am bony. Too thin.

Water. I think I dreamed about it. My lips are dry to the point of discomfort.

I start to feel anxious. I can't move, my body want to twitch with need. I want to scream in frustration. My breaths start to quicken. my head spins.

….

I'm awake again.

So thirsty. For the first time since my first days here. I cry. My tears seems a waste, The liquid I can only dream of touching to my tongue falling down my face.

…..

My scalp and skin itches. My shoulder blades burn where they touch the metal table as though its hot. The heels of my feet, feel as though they are on fire, cuffed so tightly to the table. My bottom, aches, and by back is stiff and feels almost numb, that is my only relief.

When I woke my lips were stuck together, Pulling them apart made me taste blood. Can't stop tonguing the dry gaping cracks along my bottom lip.

I don't have the energy to cry.

…..

I'm awake.

.

.

.

.

My eyes just stare. I think about staring. At nothing. Its a need. To think of nothing, to empty my mind. If I don't, My mind wanders. always to Water. I dream of it still, the sound, the feel of its cool wetness on my skin.

…..

Pain. I feel myself hover in half awareness. I will myself to oblivion. I can't. Full consciousness slowly seeps in, I feel. Everything. Worse.

I have no hope now. I want to scream. I want to cry. I can do none.

I wait for death to take me.

It's welcome.