Chapter Twenty-seven
Vida
I wake with a dull ache that spreads through my entire body. Each sharp pain is a painful reminder of what I’ve gone through. As I lay on the unfamiliar bed, all I can picture is the damp moldy room I had been locked inside. I can still feel the broken wooden floor and smell the mildew coming from the walls.
I turn to face the window, watching the dim light come in through the curtains, illuminating the room and revealing glimpses of Ciro’s world. This is his room. I remember how much I hated waking up here the first time, now I almost enjoy looking around.
As I close my eyes to take in a deep breath, all I can remember is that house: the fear, the darkness, and the screams. I close my eyes tighter, trying to block them out. Trying to forget. But they only became clearer, each second spent there replaying in my head like a movie in high resolution.
The tears I had held back for so long finally break free, dancing down my cheeks as I finally allow myself to feel the full extent of what I’d gone through and what I almost went through.
After what feels like an eternity of silent sobs, I muster up some strength. My hands shake as I push myself up and slowly get onto my knees. For the first time in months, I reach out to the heavens, my heart heavy. I’m still mad at God, yet, I feel grateful.
“God,” I whisper, my voice trembling. “Thank you for keeping me alive. Thank you for rescuing me and . . . thank you for Ciro.”
Even as I speak, a part of me is still angry, angry at God for all the obvious reasons, for letting me be taken, for the pain I had to endure, and for everything I didn’t know I was angry for. But still, I pray, pouring out my heart in a way I haven’t been able to do since I watched Adam die.
I’m too caught up in a world I haven’t been in in months, that I don’t hear him enter the room.
“What the hell are you doing?” he snaps, seeming to be unable to hold back his irritation, though I don’t know what he’s irritated with.
I turn my face to look at him, my eyes red and tired, and find him standing by the door with a plate of food in his hand as he watches me sob on the floor.
“Praying?” I say, stating the obvious.
“Are you serious right now?” he asks, eyes fixed on my dry lips.
“What? You think God saved you?” he continues, his eyes finding mine again.
“Yes, he did,” I reply, my voice low since I’m still tired and weak after everything.
“You must be delusional or stupid. Or maybe both,” he continues, putting the plate of food on the table.
I flinch at his words, each word cutting deeper than the last. I want to explain, to stop this from turning into one of our usual arguments, but I can’t even do that and the tears keep falling harder.
“Ciro, I . . .” I begin, but he cuts me off before I can say anything else.
“Don’t!” he says, his voice rising.
“Why are you praying to a God who let you get kidnapped and beaten? Why didn’t he save you then?” he asks, and though his questions are valid, it isn’t the point, right?
“I fucking saved you!” he says, pointing at himself.
“Look at you!” he gestures wildly, his frustration spilling over in waves. “You’re on the fucking floor, bruised and broken. You’re too weak to even talk, and you think this is some divine intervention?”
“What the fuck is wrong with you?! You’ve had nightmares for two fucking days, and you haven’t eaten anything! Your lips are dry as fuck, and fuck!” He rakes his hand through his hair, frustration getting the best of him. “You’re on the freaking floor, thanking a God who let that fucker almost touch you!”
He sounds so angry, but a part of me wonders if his anger is directed to me or at what almost happened to me. Wondering aside, his words still hurt deeply and I can’t fight back the sobs that escape me, each one louder than the last. I feel so helpless, the weight of his anger pressing down on me and I cry silently as he continues to berate me.
“Fucking say something!” he demands. “Or does your God want you to be mute too?”
I begin to rise, almost falling back to the ground in the process. I’m done listening to him, and though my knees protest me moving, I still make my way toward the door that leads to my room. I can’t endure his rage any longer, especially not after everything I had to go through in that hell hole.
Fuck! It’s his fault I’d been kidnapped in the first place. Yet here he is, yelling at me as if I had somehow brought this upon myself.
As I reach the door, I hesitate for a few seconds. I hold onto the doorknob tightly, my heart racing in hurt and anger. Tears blur my vision, but I force myself to turn back to him, meeting his furious gaze.
“How can you say things like that to me?” I manage to say, my voice shaking. “You left me in the first place, Ciro. You left me all alone, so how can you stand there and talk to me like it was my fault?”
Ciro’s expression shifts from anger to surprise, mixed with guilt. I can see it flickering beneath the surface, but instead of saying something, he remains rigid, staring at me like he hadn’t heard a word I’d said.
Without waiting for a response, I shake my head, disappointed that I’d let myself expect an apology from him. I finally open the door and step into my room, leaving Ciro behind. The door closes softly behind me, leaving Ciro in a pool of fuck up he’s created once again.
Ciro
The plan was to get her so me food, sit with her like I have been doing, and read her the romance book I found in her room while I wait for her to wake up. But now, I’ve gone and caused a mess and this stupid door separates us again. I hate how much that door annoys me. But I know my real anger is towards me and not the goddamn door.