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Little by little, Father’s stripped it all away until nothing remains except my mattress, my desk, and me.

Well… the cat is here too, but I know Father will take him if he finds out. I can’t let that happen.

I’ve started calling him Shade because of the way his sleek black coat seems to absorb light. Every so often he cracks one bright yellow eye open and looks around.

I get the feeling he’s just pretending to sleep.

Now, he’s my only comfort. If I knew the meal Mara brought me three nights ago would be my last for a while, I would’ve asked for more.

Father’s only kept food from me this long once before.

In the basement.

No. I can’t think about the basement. Not now. Not ever, if I can help it.

I try so hard to black out those memories. For the most part, I succeed. Except no matter how hard I try, I can’t forget the hunger. I can’t forget the way my stomach felt like it was caving in, like my body was eating itself. An empty hole I was sure would never be filled again.

It hasn’t gotten that bad yet, but I can feel the cramps starting. My limbs feel weighted down with exhaustion and lack of energy. Breathing feels like a chore, each inhale more shallow than the last.

I have nothing to do but think and sleep, and every day my anxiety increases as the reality of my uncertain future cements itself with every passing hour.

I miss my mother.

I miss our long afternoons together and all the ways she turned every day into an adventure.

Father never let us go anywhere without bodyguards shadowing our every move. Even alone in the house, someone was always watching, either in person or through the cameras placed strategically throughout the house.

She always made sure to reminded me that we weren’t ever truly alone. Even bundled together inside our blanket fort, she’d raise a finger to her lips and whisper, “Quiet, little ember. Don’t forget, our words can be snatched from the air, carried away on the wind. We must be careful. We must keep our stories safe.”

My mother was beautiful. The only light in my otherwise dark world. And yet, there was always a sense of melancholy lurking under her smiles. The ones she wore just for me. I remember the way the scent of fear clung to her like it was a permanent part of her Omega perfume.

Even terrified, she somehow managed to be strong for me. When Father wasn’t poisoning every corner of our home with his presence, she was working diligently to fill it with stories and laughter and hope.

I remember how she used to hold my hands and swing me around and around, her laughter full of anticipating and love. Then, when I least expected it, she would let go and send me soaring through the air to land safely in a pile of pillows and cushions. The dizzy joy of it had been addicting.

It felt like flying—the rush of air, the weightlessness, the freedom.

“One day, my sweet girl,” she promised. “One day, you will soar.”

I wish I still had the same belief in her promises as I had when I was young. My hope feels like it’s dying, shrinking to nothing under the gnawing hunger in my belly and the furious injustice in my heart.

I’m not mad at my mother, though. I’m mad at myself.

How many years have I allowed myself to be shackled like this?

My mother was who taught me to be submissive around my father, but somewhere along the way I’ve forgotten all our private, happy moments.

I watch the shadows move across my bedroom wall as the sun sets on another day, and will myself not to think about the cold and hunger. I haven’t moved out of bed all day except to use the bathroom and refill my water. I can’t. Each time I stand, the room tilts and spins around me.

This life, it isn’t sustainable.

I have to do something. I can’t just lay here and wait for death or worse. I can’t let all the years my mother spent hoping for a better life for me die without even trying to fight for it.

Enough wallowing in the past. It’s time to start thinking of the future.

I’m going find a way out of this house. Out of this life.

Neither are enough for me any longer. I don’t want to simply exist in the background, playing a small role in someone else’s story. I don’t want my father to decide my future—a future I know would be hell, no matter what choice he makes.