Word Count: 494

By the fifth day, Ganymede gave in to lethargy and apathy.

The tortures no longer enflamed her the way they had before. She took the curses and the beatings as they came, and uttered not a single word in reply to the ceaseless questions posed to her by the dozen. She did not weep. She screamed, but it was less from the pain and horror of it all and more for the sake of releasing her boiling rage. When they questioned her, she screamed unintelligible answers; when they hit her, she climbed to her feet and screamed her anger and her frustrations into their faces.

The screams of the other prisoners no longer affected her the way they used to. Some had ceased altogether. Others grew quieter with the passing of time. Soon she was able to distinguish the screams from one another. Of the captives, the only names she new were Valhalla and Acrucis. Yet she became so used to hearing the screams of the others she knew that she would remember their voices for the rest of her life.

Short as she expected that to be.

She drifted into semi-consciousness whenever a lull in her tortures allowed, curled upon the floor of her cage in a fruitless attempt to keep warm. She was offered no pillow and no blanket for comfort, just the hard, unforgiving ground. Tired as she was, it hardly mattered to her where or how she slept. Any time alone was a time of comfort and respite. She took what time she was allotted and drifted on dreams of half-wakefulness. Surprisingly, she was visited by no nightmares. Nothing in her dreams could possibly compare to the terrors she faced day in and day out.

But she remained unafraid. Certainly she acknowledged the horrific nature of her current circumstances. She would wish this upon no one. Yet she felt no fear, only acceptance. She stared through the bars of her cage and waited for the next round, imagining all the ways she might seek her revenge if ever presented with the opportunity.

She knew she would never have it. Her fortunes could never be so great. She would remain here until her captors grew impatient with her obstinance and her methods of provocation. They would deem her useless and dispose of her.

She could already feel herself drifting further and further away, slowly emptying of all that made her human. She felt no happiness. She did not even feel sadness. All she felt now was anger, but even that would run out once she no longer had the energy to sustain it. Soon she would be nothing more than an empty shell, sucked dry of all that made her a living being. Her passions would go as quickly as her energy was drained. Then she would have nothing. Be nothing.

By the fifth day, Ganymede was no longer roused by hope, but waited impatiently for the welcoming arms of death.