I dreamt of my parents.

At night they came, the specters of my unconscious mind, until I could barely separate dreams from reality. Then again, reality itself had become a nightmare.

My captors shook me awake every morning, or what I assumed to be morning, and every three hours after. They stripped me of my clothes, shaved my head, and left me with nothing but a threadbare tunic that barely grazed the tops of my thighs.

Bruises covered every inch of my skin, which grew chalky and thin from the lack of sunlight and nutrients. Starvation withered away at my muscles until I could barely sit up, let alone stand, and I could feel every breath rattle against my bruised lungs.

I prayed for death, but it refused to take me.

Instead I hovered, halfway between life and death, in a purgatory of the First Order's design. Torture would've been a welcomed respite, but — instead — I was left to suffer in the dark. The faceless stormtroopers who kept me awake never spoke a word to me, not after Kylo Ren's sudden appearance left one near-dead and the other scrambling for his life.

How much time passed in my solitude, I couldn't tell you. Minutes blurred into hours blurred into days. Without any contact from the outside world, I lost hold of reality and sunk further into oblivion. If it weren't for the fact that I'd spent over a decade practically alone in my own thoughts, I'm certain I would've lost my mind by then.

As it was, I managed to cling to some semblance of sanity.

At first, I studied every inch of my new home. I pulled at the rough fabric covering the small cot upon which I sat, the thin cushion providing little relief from the hard surface upon which it sat. It was frigid, the threadbare walls smooth and cold to the touch, and I could find no comfort in anything. I had no blanket, no warm food or drink, and — as my weight began to dwindle — my body heat dropped as well.

I tried to stay active. To stay strong. I'd seen the holodramas before. I knew what happened to prisoners who let themselves waste away. Confined in those four walls, I tried to train like I'd seen action stars do. I needed to keep my body in some form of physical condition in order to have a future, but I fell into the grips of starvation and could do little more than shiver and sleep.

Besides, what future could I possibly have?

Death was waiting for me, and I found myself wishing for it once hope of survival dwindled away to nothingness.

Unfortunately, death never came. During the worst nights, when I could feel my chest rattling as I coughed, the troopers would appear like wraiths — my own personal demons of the underworld — to torment me in my sickness-induced haze. Instead of torture, they provided relief. Just enough treatment to keep me alive. Just enough food to keep me from starving. Just enough warmth to give me hope.

Fucking hope.

What could hope do for me in the darkness? Hope brought me here, trapped me in my prison, and hope stripped my family, my future, and my entire planet from me. Hope was a false idol, a perception meant to trick the weak and weary into thinking that the future held something other than death for all of us.

Hope was a just another delusion, and I had my fill of those when visions of the rotting corpse of my uncle smothered me in my sleep.

I ran my fingertips over my skin, feeling the papery dry texture that had become so familiar during my confinement, before tracing my features with my fingertips. There wasn't a mirror in the refresher, just a toilet and a small sink, and I'd almost forgotten what I looked like. Certainly, it wouldn't be as I remembered.

There would be dark bruises circling what were likely to be bloodshot and red-rimmed eyes. I could feel the sharp points of my cheekbones, once curved and smooth, now prominent and gaunt as my face sank beneath them. My lips were cracked and dry thanks to nutrient deficiencies, and I knew that my complexion would be just as sallow and dull as the skin covering the rest of my body.

Instead of a person, I felt like a ghost.

I winced as the door slid open, the curve of my spine facing the entryway, and pretended to sleep as footsteps approached my cot. It was easier if they thought I couldn't hear them, and it was less painful if their toy wasn't awake to be played with.

Fingertips brushed my shoulder. I resisted the urge to tense, my waking mind barely clinging to the threads of sanity as I waited for whatever would come next. Sometimes it was a needle. Sometimes it was worse.

The pressure on my shoulder shifted to the hollow of my throat. I could feel it sliding along my neck, feeling for a pulse, which I knew would betray me. Erratic and racing, my heart slammed against my ribcage with every breath. I'd become used to the torment, but I couldn't control my fear as it consumed me over and over and over again.

"Don't be afraid," a voice whispered behind me.

Soft and low, the sound jolted my eyes open as I realized the voice lacked the hollow, mechanical quality I'd come to associate with my masked tormentors. My breathing hitched in my chest. I debated turning to face the source, but I curled my fingers against the familiar rough texture of the mattress instead.

"I'm not going to hurt you."

I felt a pinch on my arm, then an intense burning sensation beneath my skin. It's a different feeling that what I was used to, so I released my grip on the mattress to roll over, but my head was spinning — darkness closing in at the edges of my vision — before I could complete the movement.

W-wha...

The last thing I heard was the voice murmuring into my ear, and I found myself wishing — hoping — that it might be true.

"....safe," the words drifted in and out of my mind as I slipped out of consciousness. "You're safe now.

Oh hai.