FIVE
Logan
Torture had become a numbing routine, the days blending into a continuous cycle of pain and endurance.
It was a rather mild day for torture today. I was reaching my third week here, and I hadn’t yet died. I was fairly proud of myself considering people died within the first two weeks of their captivity in enemy camps. Well, I wouldn’t consider Kaylan as part of that statistic considering she was not a captive. Why did I keep thinking of her this past week?
All she had done was give me the much-needed warmth to not let me die. Kaylan’s presence, or rather the memory of her unexpected warmth, haunted me. Was it genuine concern, or just a ploy to keep their information source alive? The doubt gnawed at me.
The evening hit steadily. I could barely feel the carvings on my forearms, from Tyka and his men. One of the cuts felt a bit too deep, so I had one of the bandages from my back repurposed.
Kaylan had walked past my cell tonight, unbothered by my new wounds. I guessed my injuries were too minor for her.
I did give one piece of information to get out of the torture today. I told them the location of two of our safe houses in Toronto, except for the HQ. I thought it would be me giving them a lot of valuable information away, but still helping them with some of our tracks and plans.
There was no way for them to track Squad 6 from there, and I didn’t want to sit back and get sliced up by Tyka.
God, the hope that they remained hidden and safe in Blackthorn’s office was the fragile thread I clung to.
Another day passed by in a blur of punches and blinding pain. I thought I’d damage my vocal cords by screaming this much.
At night, I sat in my cell, waiting for Kaylan. I assumed she would come to treat me given my injuries were more than just cuts and bruises. I was pretty sure a few of my bones were broken and the nasty bruise the size of a football on my ribs wasn’t a good sign. But she didn’t show up.
I didn’t see her the next day either. Three days turned into seven, and with each passing moment, an inexplicable worry tightened its grip on me. Tyka hadn’t mentioned her at all, and Garret paid a visit twice, without Kaylan.
She, of all people, didn’t deserve my worry. Yet, there it was, an undeniable void in her absence, a strange longing for the woman I should despise. And for some odd reason, I missed her.
Kaylan
Not here. Not now. Not yet.
He knew. I ran to the bathroom yesterday, after one of his ‘sessions’ with me, and puked my guts out. When I entered the room again, I could hear the gears in Garret’s head turning. He knew what it meant.
So, he did what anyone with his mind would do, he punched me in my abdomen. He took me to one of the chambers in the basement, hung me up on the ceiling, the shackles digging into my wrists, and then he rammed his fists into my stomach like I was a punching bag.
Then he knocked me unconscious by slamming my jaw sideways for good measure. I didn’t wake up for hours. When I did wake up, I was in the infirmary.
My legs hung in the air, my lower body exposed, and raw with pain. I woke up screaming and wailing at the gut-tearing pain of someone twisting my insides.
I knew this procedure all too well. But they didn’t have any anesthesia here, or accurate sterile tools to conduct the procedure. So here I was, at the mercy of uneducated men, butchering my body, mutilating my insides because taking me to a hospital would risk exposure.
For three whole days, I couldn’t get out of bed, not because I was ordered to stay put, but because my body simply wouldn’t let me move. Even the smallest task like reaching for a glass of water felt like an impossible feat, each movement sending waves of pain through my battered frame. Martha, bless her heart, took care of me during those days, changing my clothes and sheets whenever I soiled them.
Garret had steered clear, thankfully. My filthy appearance must have been too repulsive for his tastes.
My mind, restless and heavy with worry, kept circling back to Logan. I tortured myself with thoughts of what horrors he might be enduring without me there to offer some semblance of relief. The idea that he might need medical attention and wasn’t receiving any because I wasn’t there to tend to his wounds filled me with a deep, gnawing dread. Was he still alive?
It wasn’t until the sixth day that I managed to stand on my own, albeit with trembling legs that threatened to give out with every shaky step I took. Garret, ever so calculating, decided I wasn’t fit to be seen in the dungeons yet, preferring to hide my weakened state to preserve the illusion of my unbreakable demeanor. He needed to mask my weakness and keep me in line.
By the eighth day, walking became a bit easier, though each step was still laced with pain—a reminder of the brutality I had endured, not that anybody cared.
Today, I felt ready to face the world again, or at least the small, grim part of it that was my reality. Apparently, three residents had died in my absence because they didn’t get medical attention on time. I was glad to hear that none of them were Logan.
Logan
I thought she might be dead or had escaped. There seemed no other reason for her weeklong absence. Despite my attempts to suppress it, worry constricted my chest, a relentless grip. During the torture sessions, my pain blurred into a wish for severity, hoping it might summon her.
Or perhaps she was here but chose to stay away from me.
No, that can’t be it.
After a rather colorful date of Tyka’s fist and my face, I could only hear ringing in my ears. I was so dazed that I even forgot to worry about Kaylan. I wasn’t sure how much time had passed, or whether it was evening or night, but soon, the familiar red stilettos showered my blurred vision.
I couldn’t have heard her coming, because I couldn’t hear shit. But when I slowly looked up, I suddenly didn’t care about the agonizing ache in my jaw, the stinging in my ears, or the steady trickles of warm blood running down my face. All I cared about was her. She was wearing a dark teal dress again that ended at her knees and haltered over her shoulders. Then I saw her face.
Exhaustion was evident, yet she radiated a certain luminescence, her skin starkly pale yet flawless.
When my vision cleared further, I saw faint smudges of darkness under her eyes, like she hadn’t been sleeping.
Then I realized who could’ve been keeping her up, and fury like nothing else, stabbed at me. I averted my gaze and my face morphed into one of revulsion.
She entered my cell with her usual first aid box, and I struggled not to look at her. After cleaning my face, she assessed my head injury first and did the stitches while I kept my eyes closed. I knew my rage was radiating off of me, and I didn’t want to see her icy cold eyes.
I tried. I really tried. But then I failed and opened my eyes to face her. Starting from her knees where she perched, my gaze drifted upwards, over her tense shoulders, up to her face.
I braced for detachment, perhaps disdain, or signs of weariness. Yet, what I didn’t anticipate was the sorrow in her eyes. There she was, her gaze shimmering, hands quivering, as she concentrated on stitching the gash on my head.
“I can’t hear anything,” I whispered, but whether the words truly left my lips, I couldn’t tell.
Her eyes snapped to mine and I saw her blink rapidly. She carefully shifted to my side after finishing the stitches and grabbed a tool and a flashlight from her kit. She examined my ear, her mouth forming words I couldn’t hear.
I attempted louder, “I still can’t hear you,” noticing her startle, perhaps from my raised voice. I faced her to read her lips; my elbow brushed against her belly, sending her reeling slightly. A flash of pain crossed her face, quickly masked as she glanced at Tyka behind me.
Her lips silently formed, “Heal on its own,” and I nodded in understanding. She held up a finger, and mouthed, “In one day.”
With a nod, I acknowledged her timeline as she wrapped up tending to my other injuries.
After she left, I couldn’t help but wonder why she winced when I accidentally knocked her down. Had I hurt her?