Page 110 of Somno Slave

“Want me to read something out loud?” he jokes. “Lighten the mood?”

A laugh almost escapes me. Almost. It would be nice to pretend this is normal, to let the moment fade away. But my skin still remembers the voice like a bruise remembers the fist.

“No,” I say with a small, forced smile. “If you start reading about murderous little girls, I’ll never sleep again.”

Mike snorts.

“Fair,” he leans back. “Though, you’re missing out.”

My heart continues to pound violently. I push forward. “I’m just going to splash some water on my face. I’ll be back in ten.”

He nods his head, already turning back to his book.

I move to the bathroom quickly, stopping in front of the mirror.

My eyes look wrong. My pupils are blown, face flushed like I’ve run a mile instead of walking twenty steps from the observation room. I lift a hand and press two fingers against my throat, feeling for a pulse. It ticks back at me. Steady. Normal.

Almost mocking.

I lean closer, like if I look hard enough, I’ll find evidence that someone else is looking back at me.

My lips are a little sore, I realise absently. Dry. Probably dehydrated. I haven’t been drinking enough water.

I stare at my reflection and wait for it to blink first.

I huff out a quiet breath.

Get a grip, Rheda.

I reach for the tap and turn it on too hard. Water slams into the porcelain basin and splashes up my wrists, cold and sharp, staining my crimson sleeves a deep shade of brown. I tilt the tap handle until the water runs slower. I cup it, throw it into my face once, twice, three times until the shock bites and my breath stutters.

I lean closer to the mirror, gripping the basin.

He didn’t speak.

I repeat it like a mantra.

He didn’t speak.

He didn’t say a word.

I hold the thoughts in place like weights, pressing them down until they stop squirming.

Sleep deprivation does strange things to the mind. Stress compounds it. I’ve written about this; diagnosed it in others. I know how this works.

And yet—the memory sits heavy in my chest with an undeniable weight, not sharp, not loud, but just...there.

The way my stomach dropped. The way the hairs prickled on my neck like something had brushed past it. I was certain that he spoke.

My fingers tighten around the edge of the basin until my knuckles pale.

I want something to blame.

Him. The room. The speakers. The cameras. My lack of sleep. Anything that makes everything feel more safe.

But blame needs shape, and this doesn’t have one yet.

I splash my face again, then straighten. My shoulders move backwards, spine straightening into alignment. Posture helps. It always does. It makes me feel more in control like I deserve a space in this prison. I square myself in the mirror and make a point of smoothing my hair, checking my blouse, adjusting my collar.