"Say something, El."
She doesn't.
Right. Right. She's dead. I keep forgetting that part. Not forgetting—knowing. But also forgetting. The two things at once.
Her spine presses against my throat. The vertebrae dig in when I swallow, and I swallow a lot—on purpose, to feel them shift. They wrapped her ribs around my wrists too. Small bones. I can feel where they broke them to make them fit, snapped the ends and shaped them.
You'd hate this. Being used as a leash. You'd say something cutting about it, something that would make me laugh.
Say something.
She doesn't.
I already tried that.
Nineteen drips of water. The last one hit my knee and I watched it roll down into the crease of my pants and disappear.
Someone took time with this. The bones. Craftsmanship. I wonder if they were proud.
I'd like to meet them. Not to kill them—just to ask. Maybe kill them after.
Twenty drips.
I could snap the bones. Her bones. Easy. So easy. The gods have no idea what I am. They think Titan is a title, a rank, something you earn.
It's not.
I don't care if I die.
I keep biting my tongue to check if I'm still here. The blood tastes flat. I bit it hard enough to bleed an hour ago and didn't notice until my throat got thick with it.
I want to do it again. Bite harder. See how much comes out before I feel it.
You're spiraling, Elyra would say.
I know. That's the fun part.
Twenty-one.
The guards changed. I've been watching the torch shadows move, and there's a new one with a limp. Left leg. Drags it slightly. I can hear the scrape every eight seconds.
One. Two. Three. Four. Five. Six. Seven. Scrape.
He's scared of me. Good. He should be. Except I'm not doing anything—that's the joke. I'm just sitting here counting drips and listening to him limp and waiting for them to kill me.
I could have killed them all. When they brought her body. When they peeled the bones from her flesh and wrapped them around me while they were still wet. I could have pulled their spines out and given them to their children. Taught the children how to make leashes.
Educational.
But she was already dead, and killing them wouldn't make her less dead. Math. Simple math.
Twenty-two drips. The last one hit the same spot on my knee—exactly the same spot. What are the odds?
Kosh.
Her voice. In my head. Not real.
I answer anyway. "I'm not doing well, El."
