Sophia Rambeau is not someone you would describe as average.
With a brilliant mind passed down from her deceased mother, life tends to drag between her physics and biology classes at Midtown School of Science and Technology. The only real things tha...
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AFTER THE THIRTY-SEVENTH TRIAL WAS COMPLETE, SOPHIA REALIZED that she couldn't remember exactly how long she had been dwelling within her cell.
The realization didn't shock her though. Mostly because every sensation was dialed down to an almost nonexistent form. Every thought was sluggish. Every touch was unfeeling. Every scrap of food given to her tasted like ash on her tongue. A side effect of constant exposure to the gas, Greta explained.
Only one thought kept her from falling into the oblivion that Greta personally designed for her, that she kept promising Sophia would inevitably reach, and it was a promise. One that she was very well aware would never come to fruition. But that didn't matter. The quiet promise whispered through her phone had become a lifeline that Sophia latched herself onto. The only thing that was keeping her from drowning.
"Does Sunday work for you?"
"It's a date."
A tightness stretched through the muscles in her throat along with a sting in her eyes. Reaching up, she gripped the worn shift that she'd worn since arriving here, tightening her fist in hopes that it might help the pain in her chest.
"Peter . . . " she whimpered.
The sliding of a steel door yanked her from the warm smile she loved so much, bile rising up in the back of her throat at the sight of a smiling Greta.
"Are we ready, Proserpina?"
Ever since their first--and last--conversation when she'd first awoken, Greta no longer called her by her name. Instead, replacing it with Proserpina. Sophia didn't know why, and when she asked, the only answer given to her was silence. Or pain.
"Besame el culo. I'm done doing tricks for you."
"Proserpina, don't make me resort to violence. Up now." Lifting a small device from her pocket, sweat began to glide down Sophia's skin at the sight of it. It was a small contraption with barely two buttons and a dial on it, but she knew all too well its connection to the two shackles on her wrists and other two placed at her temples. One too many times she tested Greta, for her own amusement or simple refusal, and received its ungodly shock that would leave her motionless for hours on end.
