53. Adalina
Chapter 53
Adalina
I am literally going insane.
My days drag on endlessly, each one blending into the next. The monotony of my existence is only broken by the occasional arrival of food, a small glimmer of variation in the void. I have lost all sense of day and night in this dark, windowless prison. My days are like a continuous loop, never-ending and devoid of excitement or purpose.
As of now, I’ve received eight meals. I’ve been locked in this dungeon for 2.5 days if they’ve been feeding us at breakfast, lunch, and dinner. If they’re only feeding us two meals daily, I’ve been here for four days. If it’s one meal a day, I’ve been here for over a week. Time has lost all meaning.
In the hours that follow a meal, I am forced to endure the endless chatter of my father’s ex-bodyguards. The ones that are locked up spend their afternoons singing songs, talking about the lives they used to live, and waxing poetically about what they’ll do when they get out of here. Every word is tinged with longing and regret.
As the clock ticks between meals three and four, I feel a growing sense of frustration. The sound of my companions’ off-key voices ringing in my ears only amplifies my irritation. No matter how many times I plead for them to quiet down, they only seem to get louder and more insistent. The monotonous tune of ‘100 bottles of beer on the wall’ becomes a constant refrain that haunts me even in my sleep, jolting me awake in the middle of the night.
No one comes to visit me. Neither Dante nor Enzo delivers my meals. Instead, a stranger with an unyielding expression brings my food each day. He moves silently, never uttering a word or acknowledging my presence, leaving me to wonder who he is and why he’s here.
I am stuck in my own personal hell where all I can do is talk to myself and wonder if I’ll ever get out of here. Sometimes, I convince myself I will. Other times, I’m certain I’ll die down here.
“O
n one hand, he’s not a bad guy.” I lay on the grimy mattress and talk to the ceiling, my only friend. Its cracked and peeling paint offers no judgment or advice, only a comforting silence. The musty scent of neglect lingers in the air, but it feels like a sanctuary as I release all my thoughts and worries to the silent witness above me. “He’s quite handsome. I could do worse than a good-looking man.”
“Oh, Christ,” one of my father’s guards groans from another part of the dungeon. “Shut the fuck up, Adalina.”
I do my best to ignore him despite the fact that I am acutely aware of his presence. Though I briefly entertained the idea of befriending the guards out of necessity, I quickly realized that doing so would only lead to self-loathing. “The sex with him is good. Great, even.” Not that I have a myriad of men to compare him to. I can count my sexual partners on one hand, and Dante is head and shoulders above them all.
Someone else offers their opinion. “If you don’t shut up, I will come over there and kick you to death.”
The joke is on us all: none of us are getting out of our prison cells unless the lord of the house allows us to. And you know who isn’t going to save us? Dante Terlizzi.
“But on the other hand,” I continue, “he keeps locking me up. It puts a damper on any feelings I might have for him.”
The little voice in my head, who has been ranting and raving ever since we got thrown in here, is quick to point out that just moments before we were locked up, we were on our knees, sucking Dante off. “That’s not the point.” I glare at the ceiling as if it were the one to give me bad advice. The ceiling stares back quietly, neither offended nor surprised by my actions.
The memories from the last few weeks linger in the recesses of my mind, refusing to be forgotten. I can’t forget who was there to hold me when I woke up screaming. I wouldn’t dare forget that Dante brought me my father and allowed me to stick a blade in his chest. He’s equal parts good and bad, and I’m not sure what to do about that.
“It’s only the rest of my life,” I smile ruefully at the ceiling. The real question is, do I want to spend that life above ground or below it? Is Dante so bad that I’d rather stay locked up in a dusty, musty cell than sleeping in the lap of luxury with a personal chef, a beautiful home, and good dick?
I already know the answer, but it probably doesn’t matter. Dante isn’t coming down here to check on me anyway. Who cares if I want to tell him I’m willing to rethink his proposal?