Bet you never eat, he says. Bet you drink up the oxygen like it's butter. Bet you can go for days on nothing but thoughts.

But there’s no such thing as free. There are only different and more horrible ways to be enslaved.

Good night, sweetheart," he says. "Good bye, sweetheart," I say. And it's so casual, so innocent that he doesn't suspect a thing.

Because even if the lie is beautiful, the truth is what you face in the end.

Everyone should remember being born. It doesn't seem fair that we only remember dying.

We were his disposable things. Brought to him like cattle. Stripped of what made us sisters or daughters or children. There was nothing that he could take from us—our genes, our bones, our wombs—that would ever satisfy him. There was no other way that we would be free.

You've been captive for so long that you don't even realize you want freedom anymore.