"I am not going to die. I am not going to die." She muttered the words over and over like a protective mantra as she felt her way through the inky blackness.
That was what she kept telling herself. That was what she'd been telling herself for days now. She wasn't sure how long she'd been imprisoned in this basement. It was too dark to determine the passage of time, but she knew it had been days.
"I am not going to die." It was what she'd told herself every time she'd heard him come for her. Every time he'd touched her, hurt her. It was what she'd told herself every time he left her in the darkness, alone, cold and hungry. It was what she'd told herself, when she'd felt his eyes on her, watching her, even when it seemed she was alone. It was what she'd told herself when she'd awoken from the dream that she was safe and warm in her own bed, to find out that she was still a captive in the windowless, dank, rotting, place.
"I am not going to die."
She'd fought back. The blood flowing from her palm proved it. Even though she couldn't see the cut, she knew she was bleeding badly. The metallic scent of her own blood made her empty stomach lurch. She swallowed down the bitter bile that rose in her throat. She'd hurt him, she was sure of it. Otherwise he would have caught her by now.