24. Coen #2
Skimming my hands over the wall, I check for any inconsistencies. Any fractures or hollowed spots that could assist in my escape. I spend what must be a half-hour on the first one, finding not a single thing to help me.
I unbutton my jacket and toss it onto the concrete. Dominic would scold me for that, but I’m sure I’m already in deep enough shit for going on a killing spree in an amnesty zone. I roll up my sleeves and get back to work on the second wall, hoping like hell something will budge.
Thoughts of June lying there, bleeding out in Simon’s arms, continue to float through my mind and it’s everything I can do to stay standing and not collapse to the ground.
My heart aches at not being there for her in her final moments.
My anger had taken hold and the only thing my body knew to do, was to react.
To kill. To somehow manage to tip the scales and get even for what had happened.
As I finish up the second wall, the sound of metal from the door catches my attention. I rush over, but not quick enough. The person was able to shove a small plastic cup of clear liquid through and set it on a tray extended from the door.
“Fuck,” I scream while slicing my hand at the cup and sending it flying across the room. Do I need to stay hydrated? Probably. But there’s no telling if they laced that water with something to sedate or poison me.
I grip at the tray and do my best to pry it off.
If I can detach it, maybe I can use it to force open the door.
Wiggling it back and forth and up and down, the stupid fucking thing doesn’t budge at all.
Whoever designed it had considered that the person held captive might try brute force to remove and utilize it.
This room was carefully planned and executed—a solid, unescapable chamber.
“How long are you going to keep me here?” I pound both of my fists into the door. “Someone just tell me if she’s okay.” I hit it harder. “Please.” I rest my forehead on the cold surface, my aching hands still pressed against the impenetrable thing.
Countless hours go by and time becomes this strange elusive construct I can no longer keep a hold of.
When the exhaustion is too much, I doze in and out, my nightmares no better refuge for my mind than my waking reality.
I see red no matter what. June’s blood, her dying body.
I close my eyes and it’s burned into my memory.
Her demise haunts my dreams. I never get there in time, always running but never fast enough.
She dies a thousand deaths, and I am not capable of saving her no matter what I do.
It’s been at least a day. My internal clock is sure of that.
I have no idea how much longer, but despite the protests of not eating or drinking anything I’m served, my body is fatiguing hard.
Between the immense stress and lack of basic human needs, I find myself no longer functioning at my peak.
I’m weakened, tired, and wish that someone would just put me out of my misery.
Is this my punishment for what I’ve done?
Leave me here to rot while I never know the truth about whether June lived or died?
It’s fitting, really. Because this is the worst thing they ever could have done to me outside of hurting her, which they’ve already done. To rob me of the truth of June’s condition is the ultimate torture.
Each time the little opening on the door creaks, I desperately plead with the person delivering what measly offerings they bring.
Not once have they replied or hinted at what their plans with me are.
No one will tell me anything. I tried to reach through the gap but was met with a crowbar smashing down on my hand.
I was able to pull it away from doing any major damage, but the thing made contact with my index finger, breaking the bone and leaving a wound that wouldn't stop bleeding until I ripped off a part of my undershirt and tied it around it.
It’s strange how numb I was to the pain. I knew it should hurt. But when you’re already consumed with an incomprehensible agony, it’s hard to feel much of anything else.
A mechanism sounds from outside the door, something I haven’t heard this entire time I’ve been in here.
I push up from the floor and rise to my feet, readying my fists for whatever fight I’m about to face.
I plant my feet and suck in a breath, eyeing the room to find anything I can use to overcome my contenders.
I snatch my jacket off the ground and grip both sides of it, twisting it into a rope of sorts.
It’s not much, but if I can get it around the person’s throat, maybe I can strangle them with it.
“Hurry up,” a thick and familiar voice floats into my confined space.
My eyes widen and my grip on the designer thing loosens. Am I hearing shit or was that really him?
“Hayes,” another person calls to me through the small gap that’s formed when the door cracks open. He shoves it harder and steps into the space.
And for once in my life, I’ve never been so fucking grateful to see that tattooed idiot and that brute old man.
My dried lips part and regardless of my efforts, my voice comes out fractured. “June?”
“She’s alive.” Magnus nods. “She’s alive.”
I clutch at my chest, the wind knocked out of me. His repeated words offer me an immense relief I can barely process. I drop to my knees, the weight of everything caving in on me all at once. Tears I cannot control stream down my cheeks. “She’s alive,” I echo.