They fed me drugs.
It kept me under for what felt like an eternity, never truly helping get rid of the pain, but it put me out enough that I couldn't tell the days apart, wasn't lucid enough to notice when the bandages were changed or when I was fed with even more drugs.
I dream of Lucien. I dream of his torture. I dream of his hair being ripped back as they tipped a bag full of silver over his face. I dream of his body folding, breaking, sinking. I feel it through the bond, like a knife twisting in my sternum. I cry for him, I thrash, I reach for him, but he is too far out of reach. Too far to touch. Farther than we've both ever been. And the more I dream, the less I see him. The less I feel him.
And that's the worst part. The absence.
The silence where his heartbeat should be, pulsing against mine. The emptiness in my chest that used to hum with him. Every breath I take feels like theft.
