Chapter 42
Damn it.
I”ve been in this situation before. Not in this exact spot, as my eyes are still closed, but the sensation of regaining consciousness is all too familiar—the throbbing ache in my head, the disorienting haze clouding my senses. I want to chuckle at my rotten luck but feel too weak.
With effort, I slowly pry my eyes open, only to find myself sprawled on a cold, damp floor. The air is stale, and the faint hum of an industrial ventilation system provides the only audible backdrop to my disoriented thoughts.
The room is dimly lit, revealing bare, gray walls surrounding me on all sides. The floor is a chilly, hard surface, and as I attempt to move, a dull pain shoots through my limbs. Panic sets in as I remember what he did to me ten years ago and wonder in fear what he did while I was unconscious.
My bearings come into focus as it sets in that I’m confined within a small, walled cell.
Struggling to sit up, I take in my setting. The cell is minimalistic, devoid of any comforts. The walls are featureless, except for a single observation camera mounted in a corner, its unblinking lens trained directly on me. The camera emits a subtle red glow, adding an eerie ambiance to the cold environment.
“Hey, asshole!” I shout out to it. “What? No luxury yacht this time? Gambled your wealth away?”
As I look away to assess my situation, I notice the absence of windows, leaving me in complete isolation. The ceiling looms overhead, oppressive and featureless, and the door to this cell is a solid barrier without any discernible handle or latch.
My pulse quickens, realizing the gravity of my predicament. I’m trapped, alone in this sterile enclosure. Panic mixes with confusion as I try to recall how I ended up here.
Restaurant.
Brittney.
Car bomb.
Rick.
Panic.
Chaos.
Masked men.
I reach out to touch my shoulder, where I know the injection hit me. They drugged me.
God, I hope Brittney got out safely.
And poor Rick. I can only hope that bomb wasn’t my car.
I push the disheveled strands of hair that fall across my face away. My eye catches on my wrist and one of Callum’s black hair bands among the various metal armbands that dangle decoratively on my forearm. I grab it and tie my messy hair up. I look down; my black vest and jeans are dirty and dusty.
Fear and determination flicker in my eyes as I glance around, taking stock of my confined surroundings. It’s unsettling, to say the least.
Despite the chill in the air, a bead of sweat forms on my forehead as I register the ever-watchful eye of the camera. It”s a silent witness, a reminder that I’m not alone and that every move I make is being scrutinized.
Amid the uncertainty, I gather my strength, a mixture of fear and determination, and stand up. The silent, oppressive atmosphere amplifies the weight of my isolation, leaving me to wonder what awaits beyond the confines of my cold, walled cell.
“Come on, asshole!” I yell at the camera. “You weren’t shy last time you kidnapped me. Let’s get this shit started. We both know you’re dying to fuck me.”
I can still feel the knife Callum gave me lodged tightly in between my breasts, held up in my bra. Now all I need is this prick’s hairy dick to stab it, and I’ll make sure this time to leave him with a souvenir of my own.
I have no idea how long I’ve been here, an hour, maybe two. Seems like several. I have no idea how to tell the length of time since I came to it. I’m shitting myself, this asshole holds no mercy, and I know he likes to play cat-and-mouse games, especially when he keeps me on a chained leash.
The only positive aspect I have against this ordeal is that I’m sure it’s the same asshole who abducted me the last time, and this time, I know I have four men who will comb the earth to find me. Plus, I’m already anticipating that things will get terrible for me.
At least this time, I’m not confused about what and why.
Although the why is questionable.
I’m sitting here on the damp floor, huddled with my hands on my knees in an attempt to stop myself from trembling. Maybe it’s the cold that causes me to shiver, or perhaps the stone-cold fear of what I already know could happen to me.
The thoughts of what I could have done better to prevent this flood my mind, but I try to ignore them because what’s done is done. I can’t change my present predicament.
If only I lived in some fictional dimension and had a time machine!
Actually, that would be super cool.
I’d probably go back in time and advise Elvis to avoid those fried peanut butter and banana sandwiches and prescription pills and tell Marilyn not to get involved with any government officials. I’d hold Kurt Cobain’s hand and tell him things will get better. Fuck, then there’s Jimi Hendrix, Janis Joplin, Amy Winehouse…. A bunch of people who died unnecessarily, and the world as we know it today won’t dramatically change if I happened to undead them and help them through the pain they’re going through.
All it takes is one individual who has experienced trauma and can empathize with another”s agony, aiding them in overcoming their ordeal.
I tend to think of the craziest what-ifs, which probably stems from spending too much solitary time in the desert.
But I’m thinking of all these people who died when they shouldn’t have because I might expire under this psychopath’s hand. The likelihood of it happening sinks in, and a lump forms in my throat.
I don’t deserve to die.
Not yet, anyway.
There’s way too much shit I want to do.
I’ve just rekindled my relationship with my men, for starters.
Shit. The idea of spending eternity in hell without them sounds freaking boring. I’d have so much more fun with them. We’d probably rule the underworld.
Suddenly, the stillness in here is shattered by the creaking of the heavy metal door. My heart races as I press myself further into the corner, hoping to disappear into the shadows. The door swings open, revealing two black-masked figures wearing matching black combat wear. Their presence sends a shiver down my spine.
They move towards me with a silent, calculated precision, their every step muffled by the cold concrete floor. I can feel their eyes on me, even though their faces are concealed behind featureless masks.
“Time to go,” a voice echoes through a distorted modulator, devoid of any emotion.
My pulse quickens as I get up, my legs feeling like lead as I stumble toward the looming figures.
The guards flank either side of me, guiding us through a labyrinthine maze of sterile corridors and echoing hallways. The air is heavy with a metallic tang, and the distant hum of machinery accentuates the surreal nature of my surroundings.
The air ventilation system throughout this building strongly suggests that it may be an underground facility of some kind.
Dammit, this isn’t good.
Eventually, we reach a room bathed in an eerie red light, where a tall, dark figure awaits. My breath catches in my throat as the guards usher me forward, leaving me standing alone before their boss, who no longer hides behind his mask.
I’m staring straight into the real face of my kidnapper and the man responsible for the lifetime of trauma he instilled in me.
But the atmosphere thickens as I observe the person standing behind him.
Shock, hurt, and confusion suddenly fill me, and the world around me seems to blur as the magnitude of betrayal settles in. Echoes of disbelief reverberate in my mind, and tears well up fast. A mixture of pain and betrayal threatens to spill over.
My hands tremble as I grapple with the reality of the situation. I try to absorb the truth and wonder how I could have missed the signs.