Slipping cautiously out of bed I took the pitcher of tomato juice to the bathroom and emptied it in the wash basin, then returned to bed with it, placing it under my pillows in such a way that I could bring it out and strike without warning.
"What made you afraid, January?"
I opened my eyes abruptly. The face above me bent closer suddenly, noting my new reaction.
My hand was around the handle of the heavy glass pitcher. I drew in a deep breath. With convulsive movement I struck, only to feel the pitcher caught and pulled from my fingers.
"I noticed it was gone," the doctor said calmly. "I'll get it filled again for you."
The door closed softly. I sobbed in angry frustration, in hopeless protest. In murderous hate, for I knew that Dr. Leopold Moriss' every move and every word were coldly calculated, directed toward one goal. To break me down.
"What made you afraid, January?"
My mind skidded through vast spaces to jar into its cradle of pain. I opened my eyes. There was a glass of red fluid hovering in front of my eyes, the doctor's fingers around it. I brought the back of my hand against where it had been. It had bobbed up so that I missed. The action half turned me on my face.
I stayed that way. There was the careful sound of the glass being set on the table, the sound of the door closing. With a deep sigh I turned on my back again.
There must be a way out. There had to be a way out. All I had to do was think about it, if I could think through the torture of my body. One thing I knew: I would never tell him what he wanted to know. Not to escape a thousand years of torture.