But again, she did not flee. What is wrong with me? Am I suffering from some form of Stockholm syndrome? I have to get away from these animals! Sitting naked, afraid, and confused on the cold tile floor next to the near-empty pot of rose-colored water, the bloodstained washcloth, and a pile of nearly unrecognizable gore-encrusted clothes, Kate shed the first tears since being abducted by the bikers several days earlier. Up to that point she had remained strong and stoic, unwilling to give those bastards the satisfaction of knowing they were breaking her, that she was affected at all by their heinous crimes. During those unthinkable few days, her only consolation was the clear irritation the bikers displayed at not seeing her spirit cave like the others they raped and tortured. Her resolve had been her only weapon. At least until that retard Turtle let me get a hold of his blade. Now, curled in a ball, she let her guard down and wept in private. She cried for innumerable things: for the world she feared was lost and for what she feared it would become, for the others she had seen brutalized and murdered, and least of all, for herself. The tears she shed on her own behalf were not born of self-pity. In fact, she doubted she possessed the capacity for that emotion any longer.
