It was almost funny, if you didn't count the part where I couldn't breathe.
They had it down to a rhythm now—tilt the head, pour the water, pause just long enough to make me choke on hope, then start all over again. The cloth over my face clung tighter with each round, muffling my gasps, twisting my lungs against themselves. One of them had learned the trick of pouring just warm enough water to make the body think it was safe—no shock, just the kind of heat that dragged memories to the surface like bloated corpses.
I counted each pour in my head. Not because I couldn't break free. But rather because I wanted to know exactly how far I could go before I broke.
