I do my best not to lose track of the days. It isn't easy. One drags into the next, and they're as monotonous as they are long.

I can't distinguish Wednesday from Thursday or whatever. I think it's Saturday, by the way, but I wouldn't put money on that. If I'm right, that would make it my fifth day in this hellhole.

There are no highlights to speak of. Only lowlights on repeat. Bland meals. Dark, eerie nights. My light fixture has no lightbulb. I'm not sure it would work even if there was. So, I just sit here, shuddering in the dark, trying to pick out natural from supernatural. Good from evil. Haunted . . . hallucinatory . . . I don't know where to draw the line anymore.

Howling, creaking, loud sacred music from centuries past, banging against the walls, and cries of pleasure or pain—it's hard to tell the difference—footsteps that fade in and out, some that approach my door but never come in or go away.

Someone in this house plays the violin. Pretty well, in fact. I might have some appreciation for it if I liked classical music and wasn't forced to listen to the same few pieces, for hours on end, at a time I'm normally sleeping.

Hard to believe, but I prefer the night. I'm only bothered by the noise. Although I've had more luck resting during the day, I'm always anticipating my Mistress's arrival, at consistent intervals. Prue has been my only "company" so far, and she gets slap-happy if I'm stubborn or talk back. Or if I'm forced to speak and my answers don't come out at the speed, volume, and depth she demands, and her demands are never the same twice.

You get the idea. I can do no right.

Prue certainly doesn't like that I'm "late." My period has yet to grace us with its presence. That makes me a harlot, of course. A lying one. And, according to her, if I happen to be pregnant—and she will eventually check—she'll gut me, roast me on a spit, and feed us both to the wolves.

Even on my darkest days, and the last few are right up there, I couldn't make this stuff up. My tears have dried up, so when she makes these outrageous threats, I just have to laugh. And, of course, I get smacked for it, and still, I can't make it stop. It goes to show you how much I'm losing it. On day five! I'm no soldier, but I thought I'd at least last the week...

What can I do to slow my descent? Lots and lots of pushups, squats and lunges, and as many crunches as I can stand. Working out is probably delaying my curse, but so be it. As my only glimmer of hope, it's worth the disdain I bring on when my body doesn't cooperate with their agenda.

The bathroom is the only place I'm not seen on camera. As far as I know. Prue hasn't commented on the time I spend in here, at any rate. She probably would comment, but I keep the noise and vibration down, and clean myself up well before she's known to arrive—it's the only reason the tub's trickle of cold water is at all bearable.

I'm sure someone is keeping tabs on me, but, for whatever reason, they're not sharing this information with her. I shouldn't assume they're on my side, but at least they're not fully on hers.

During a set of push-ups, the door to my room bursts open without much warning. It's usually near-dark when I get my evening meal—dry chicken and an even drier baked potato—and the sun is still above the treetops, so I'm anticipating a new sort of trouble. This is the first break to Prue's routine, and I need her to stay unaware of mine. I've been denied every other way to pass the time, and I can't lose this, too.

I haul my upper body away from the doorless bathroom entryway and squat by the toilet, a place where she can't as easily see me. I did, however, catch sight of them. Yes, two people have come in. Prue brought up another woman—tall, fit, early to mid-twenties, short dark hair beneath an army-green baseball cap.

As I rise to my full height, the sheen of sweat on my body goes ice cold.      

"Samantha!" Prue shrieks. "Where are you?"

The one window in my domain that isn't just a porthole (the bathroom) has blades built into it. Unless I broke through the glass and took my chances on a three-story fall, there's no other place I could be.

"Using the bathroom," I call out. "I'll be just a second." 

After wiping the sweat from my face with the sleeve of my nightgown, I fake-flush the toilet and turn on the sink. I take my time washing my hands. A basic bar of soap is one of the few "luxuries" I've been afforded, and I'm in no hurry to see what this is about.

When I can't get away with dallying any longer, I shuffle through the doorway and await their command.

"This is Shilo," Prue informs me, her glare darting to the woman next to her. "She's here to check on your status."

She must be the "dog" I was threatened with. Though it makes sense they'd choose a female, I envisioned a male. It would be much more humiliating. They made the selection based on familiarity instead. Shrewdness is their form of cruelty this time.

Shilo is someone I think I've seen before, but we haven't met. She is subtly striking—flawless but nothing noteworthy—and it's probably why I can almost place it. She has such a knack for blending in that she stands out. Our paths haven't crossed in a memorable way, though, and I've never heard her mentioned. All things considered, she makes me just as uneasy as everyone else. 

Her expression remains stoic. She gives nothing away. And when she nods at me, without really looking at me, this doesn't change.

Prue then snaps her fingers at me like I'm a dog, too. "Nightgown off."

Without turning her head, Shilo's eyes seem to point out the camera in the corner of the room. And then they flare at me. It was all so quick that I almost missed it. And Prue did miss it. She's too busy scowling at me, her hooked nose—and temper—flaring already.

"Can we do this in the bathroom?" I inquire. "I'd rather not be on camera."

"Shy, all of a sudden?" Prue sneers. When I only reply with the steadiness of my gaze, she relents with a flick of her hand. "Fine. But be quick about it."

Prue goes to collect my lunch tray and Shilo goads me into the bathroom, close on my heel. She pursues me all the way to the wall and doesn't ease up or give me much space.

When I reach for the hem of my nightgown, she puts a hand up to stop me. "Don't bother. I can already smell a hint of blood on you. And I will have to tell her," she whispers. "You've been working out," she also notes after a sharp sniff.

I nod. Are you going to tell her that, too? I almost ask, but I bite my tongue when she smirks.

"Good," she adds.

"Are you almost done in here?" Prue pops her head in to ask.

"She's being difficult," Shilo grunts over her shoulder.

I nudge Shilo out of my immediate space, lock my arms by my sides, and watch Prue's expression crumple to something truly hideous.

"Then hit her," she insists, clipping every word. Then she steps out again.

Shilo smacks her thigh. I whimper, playing along, and then she drops her head by my ear. "Be ready to fight like hell. Do you have anything you can use as a weapon?"

I haven't even been given a butterknife, but there's a fork Prue didn't realize was missing, an old nail beneath the radiator, and a cracked tile I was able to remove with my fingernails.

I'm not convinced I can trust anyone completely, so I don't share this information. I doubt there's time for it anyway. I nod again instead.

Shilo returns the gesture, wasting no words. "We'll get you a message. Somehow," she tags on, seemingly a bit frustrated and overwhelmed. "Until then, stay strong. Keep doing what you're doing and know that you're always being watched. Fear it, and also, make the most of it."

"Who?" I blurt out, feeling dumb, like I'm imitating an owl. "Who's watching?"

Shilo glances over her shoulder, at the fast-approaching footsteps. "Ishmael. He'll pretend he's nice . . . to you. But beware, he isn't," she hisses while her hand clutches onto the skirt of my nightgown.

"Is he okay?" I murmur next, hoping she knows what he I'm referring to, despite the abrupt change of subject. I've had a lot of time to think, and still don't know what to think, but I've gathered enough for my doubt to branch in new directions. Jael could be dead. He could be living life as a hero. It's complicated, though, isn't it? Wouldn't the truth most likely be in the middle somewhere? Especially if Shilo is trying to help me? Assuming this isn't some elaborate ploy to test my obedience...

"No," Shilo answers harshly. I'm not convinced she heard me correctly or answered the question I asked. Even if she did, what does her no mean exactly? Is he dead or the bad guy? Hurt or trapped or gone?

There's no time for a follow up. Shilo drops my nightgown, turning her head, just as Prue rejoins us in the bathroom, already crowded beyond a reasonable capacity. "There. Was that so hard?" Shilo asks me in a tone that would satisfy Prue's ill will.

She edges past Prue like nothing of substance was ever exchanged. I follow Shilo's lead and get smacked in the back of the head when I try to pass by. I know where I stand—below the "dogs."

I'm covered in bruises and abrasions I don't need a mirror to see. It hurts everywhere—every muscle, joint, organ, hard and soft flesh. Some wounds are self-inflicted, like the ones to my spine—too many crunches on tile, for example. Then there's my pounding head—I'm not consuming enough calories for this, and the water from the sink tastes like sulfur and rust. I'm either dehydrated, or mildly poisoned, or both. Or concussed. I'm experiencing at least three hits to the head a day. My lower abdomen hurts, too. I'm working it like crazy and maybe Shilo is right about my time of the month.

Nonetheless, I pick up where I left off as soon as Prue and Shilo leave and intend to keep at it until dinnertime. What else am I supposed to do? Cry? Scream? Sleep? Paint the walls with my own blood?

Nothing matters but some things matter less.

In the last trace of daylight, I clean myself up and empty my bladder while I can still see. I'm just finishing up when I hear footsteps.

And I jolt, not once but twice.

Someone is coming.

And there is blood on the toilet paper.