FIFTEEN

ELENA’s POV

I am in the backseat of a luxurious sedan. The seats are black and leathered and the interiors are immaculately spotless; there is air conditioning and a heating system too. I have never been in a sedan before. Father and I used to dream about sitting in a car such as this; we would sit on a grassy spot under a shady tree at the top of the hill at our little village and he would tell me stories of the great vehicles that only the rich rich and powerful possessed, and I would often wonder what it would feel like to be in one.

Now I know. It feels like death.

There is no joy in being enveloped by such luxury and as the car gently hums along the rocky road that leads up a winding hill, I lean my weary head against the tinted window sill, not particularly focusing on anything that whizzes by the window.

I look, but I do not see. I breathe, but I am smothered. I touch, but I cannot feel. I cannot do anything. I cannot e