Sometimes it made her sit upright suddenly in wide–eyed panting horror. Lily knew of nothing that could counter the terror of existence except ink, and she had not had any ink since they had locked her in almost six months before. The craving was unbelievable. The claustrophobia was worse than ever. And the fear for her baby and herself. They had boarded up the skylight on the roof and at the bottom of the shaft. It was almost six weeks since her escape attempt. She felt huge and her muscles were wasting away from the lack of exercise. She tried to walk around the room as much as she could in the day, but her back hurt constantly now, weakened by lack of movement. It ached in her dreams. She still had the nightmare whenever she slept, but now it was even worse, because when she woke up she was still trapped in a dark room, trapped perhaps until Brian cut the baby out of her and killed her. Annie came in to see her most days, bringing light, water, food. Lily had grown to detest her staying in the room to talk, but then missed it terribly when Annie didn’t stay: it was her only human contact.
