Of course, as in all things my parents did, they didn't play fair. At least Mother didn't; which is why I woke up two days later in the backseat of the family car, tied up and gagged, and I screamed. Or at least tried to; the gag made it hard to do so. Nightmares had plagued me for two nights following the disastrous confrontation with my parents, and I prayed this was another one. But the bite of the ropes, and the sour taste of the gag in my mouth were all too real, and I wondered how on earth Mother had managed to pull this off.
It didn't matter; I wasn't told anything, and by the time the car stopped, I was possessed by a desperate need to go to the toilet. Luckily my captors had the good sense to allow me to meet that need, but I was held at gunpoint for the walk to and from the toilet block at which we'd stopped. Then I was tied up and bundled back into the car, where I endured another few hours of misery.
It was getting dark by the time we stopped at a small cottage, and I was led into the house and upstairs at gunpoint. The female captor then told me I was to stay on the top floor until morning. My meals would be brought to me, and I was free to use the facilities, but I was not to go downstairs, nor was I permitted to talk to anyone. She then untied me and shut the door, leaving me in silent misery. I still couldn't believe this was happening, and I hoped Jethro and my friends would be alright. If harm had been brought to them, I vowed to make Mother pay in enough bruises to make her unable to sit down for a whole month.
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The next morning, I was tied up after breakfast and bundled back into the car. Again we only stopped long enough to give me a chance to pee, and then the long drive began again. I had no idea where we were going, and I didn't dare ask, and the nightmare continued right up until we arrived at Dover. I felt my heart sink right to the bottom of my toes as I realised what was happening; I was being taken across the Channel. I silently cursed my mother, but there was little I could do; where I was going, I'd bring vengeance on no one.
My mother had gotten her way after all; across the Channel was the camp where she planned to see me broken and bent to her will.
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Paris would ordinarily have delighted me; I'd always longed to go there, but had never gotten the chance. But I was still tied up in the backseat, and no one had come to my aid. More nightmare hours followed, until at last we stopped at our final destination, and I was hauled out of the car. There, I found a tall, stern-faced woman standing at the gates of a very austrere nunnery, and I shivered when I felt the dark magic emanating from the place. No werewolf had survived unscathed, and as a sum of money changed hands, I wondered, as I'd done once before, if I would be the first witch to succumb to the cruel trials every inmate was subjected to, to break their wills and make them more obedient to their packs.
Once the car pulled away, the abbess turned to me. "Come," she said, and I followed her, shivering as the gates clanged to behing me. A heavy feeling of oppression sank into my bones as we walked across the cobblestoned courtyard, looming dark and cold under a grey sky, and the distant mountains seemed chill and forbidding.
We entered a long, low building, and as I followed my new captor, I felt the goosebumps rise on my arms when I saw the solid metal doors spaced at frequent intervals. Sobs, screams and mutterings came from almost all the tiny cells, and when we stopped at an open door, I felt as if I wanted to throw up.
The abbess turned to me. "You'll only be allowed one hour of exercise each day," she told me. "Meals will be delivered through the hatch, and you will ring the bell when you need your tray to be collected. You will speak to no one unless spoken to, and you will not even think of escape. Infractions will be punished according to their severity, and if repeated infractions occur, you will be assigned to solitary confinement and forbidden your one hour of exercise until you repent. And I can assure you, you will repent."
She stepped aside, and I shivered as I walked into the tiny cell, groaning as she shut and locked the door behind me. It was actually a bit more roomier than I'd expected, and I was relieved to see a small area with a toilet and wash basin. But there was only one tiny window, set high up in the far wall, and sturdy bars prevented it from being opened. The bed was hard and narrow, with only a single scratchy grey blanket, and I felt as if I should be screaming or sobbing myself. Already I felt the oppression grow worse, and I found myself almost wishing for the relative freedoms of my family packhouse. Being locked in here twenty-three out of twenty-four hours seemed a punishment on its own, but as I sat on the bed, I realised there was much more to it than that. Almost immediately, I heard a faint, but insidious voice, telling me I was wrong to go against the will of my pack. My parents, the voice insisted, had only my best interests at heart, and no one could love or care for me like they did.
I tried putting my hands over my ears to shut the voice out, but it resumed its dialogue inside my head, and I groaned again. Now I knew why so many werewolves went insane or broke under the pressure. The voices seemed tailor made to each inmate, and no matter how much you tried to block them out, they kept on with their litany, and not even the most stringent arcane defense could stop them from burrowing deep inside your skull.
I shivered. But despite the overwhelming desire to give in, I held firm. I could still fight, and I did, using my memories of my time at Jethro's packhouse to stave off burning urge to scream out for someone to come and take me away from this horrible place. It was a stopgap measure; the voice seemed to take stock before trying another angle, and I knew, even as I brought up more memories, that it wouldn't be long before the author of the voice found new ways to drag me down and break me apart.
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