35. Nell
I’m dead.
I have to be.
Or this is some twisted nightmare, and any second now I’ll wake up in my bed, heart racing, Cameron beside me, everything intact.
But the fabric bag over my head says otherwise—thin, scratchy, barely breathable. I have to force myself to stay calm, to take shallow, measured breaths. Panic will only make it worse.
Everything replays in my mind like a cruel montage—my last words to Cameron, the way I thought I could outmanoeuvre him, the reckless belief that I was in control.
I wasn’t.
I fucked up.
I told him I hated him… and now there might never be chance to fix it.
I can make out vague shapes through the fabric—shadows shifting, figures moving—but nothing clear enough to anchor me. Just enough to remind me I’m not alone.
They don’t speak in front of us. I’ve noticed that.
I know there are others here—girls. I can hear them sobbing, whispering prayers, pleading for someone to listen. But the moment anyone tries to speak above a whisper, there’s a sharp, sickening crack—like a whip—and then silence.
The air is thick with the stench of piss, sweat, and damp concrete. It clings to my skin, seeps into my lungs. I don’t know how many of us there are. I don’t know where we are. But the cold beneath me, the echo of wind howling through metal beams—it feels like a warehouse. Abandoned and forgotten.
Just like us.
The ropes bite into my wrists so tight, carving angry lines into my skin with every twitch. But I don’t dare move. I don’t know what’s waiting beyond this room, and I’m not na?ve enough to think I’d make it more than a few steps.
I don’t even know if Darcy’s here. Probably not. It’s been too long since I last saw her face, and hope is a luxury I can’t afford anymore.
The clips Cameron once showed me—those cold warnings—now cling to my skin like death itself. Mocking me. Reminding me how foolish I was to think I could outrun this.
I try to steel myself—body, mind, everything—but it’s hard when all I want is home. And by home, I mean Cameron’s home. I miss Boomerang. I miss the quiet things; the weight of a blanket, the softness of a pillow, the sound of someone breathing beside me.
Now, all of that is gone. And what’s left is pain. Unbearable and unrelenting in its cruelty.
Sometimes I wish they’d just kill me. But I know better.
There’s something worse waiting.
Killing me would be mercy. And there’s nothing merciful about where I’m going.
“These,”
a voice barks, sharp like someone in command.
Panic erupts around me. Cries, sobs, desperate pleas.
A few more are taken. Dragged into the dark. Their fate already sealed. And I sit here, trembling, waiting for my time to come.
As much as I want to believe Cameron’s out there—tearing the world apart to find me—I know better.
That’s why I never wanted to fall for him in the first place. Because hope is dangerous. Hope is a lie dressed up in comfort. And I can’t afford it.
There’s no knight in a black hoodie coming to save me. No perfectly calculated rescue. No stalker boy saviour. Hope will only rot me from the inside out. And in a place like this, hope is lethal.
Sitting here in nothing but a bra and pants, shivering against the cold concrete, left alone with nothing but my thoughts—and the endless parade of horrors my mind insists on conjuring.
Will it be an old man who buys me?
A young one—cruel, calculated, with dead eyes and a smile that never reaches them?
Or worse… will it be a group?
At this point, I’m not ruling anything out.
I close my eyes and try to think of something else—anything else.
Boomerang.
I hope Cameron remembers to feed him. Kibble only. No cheese—cheese messes with his stomach. I hope he remembers that.
A wave of hopelessness crashes over me, heavy and cold as I realise that I’ll never cuddle Boomerang again. Never feel him kneading biscuits into my lap, or stabbing me with his claws like he’s trying to love me and maim me at the same time.
Never scold him for knocking over my favourite mug, or find him curled up in the laundry basket like he owns the place.
All those tiny, ordinary moments are just gone. And the worst thing is, I didn’t even know they were the last ones.
A lump rises in my throat, thick and unrelenting. Before I can stop it, tears slip down my cheeks, soaking into the black fabric stretched over my face, gluing it to my skin like a second, suffocating layer.
I can’t afford to cry. Not here.
It’s already hard enough to breathe—every gasp shallow, every inhale laced with panic. Crying only makes it worse. But the tears come anyway.
I wish I’d been smarter.
I wish I’d done more research—learned what really happens to girls who disappear like this.
But instead, I wasted time fantasising about Cameron. About all the filthy, beautiful things he might do to me.
And that’s a mistake I’ll carry to my grave.
There’s a shift beside me.
Movement.
Shadows loom like tall, faceless monsters. From under this hood, they’re nothing but nightmares. And maybe that’s all they are. Nightmares waiting to devour me the second I close my eyes.
If only I were that lucky.
“Grab a few from here,”
a voice says, utterly detached.
“He’ll want them fresh. The older ones will need disposing.”
Disposing?
My stomach turns.
Is that what happens to the girls who stay down here too long? They’re discarded like spoiled meat—used up, no longer worth the trouble?
Because they’ve had longer to rot?
I feel bile rise in my throat. My whole body clenches, trembling with the effort not to be sick. But the truth is already here, curling around me like vines.
I’m not a person to them.
I’m inventory.
A rough pair of hands seize me, and just like that, I become one of the girls begging—stammering pleas for mercy we know won’t come.
The worst part isn’t the pain.
It’s not knowing where this ends.
My bare feet scrape against the unforgiving ground, stumbling over debris I can’t see. Shards of glass bite into my soles, but I barely flinch. The fear dulls everything except the pounding of my heart.
I brush against others—shoulders, arms, trembling bodies just as cold and terrified as mine. We’re herded together, packed tight like livestock, shuffling forward in a slow, miserable procession. A pack of pigs being led to slaughter.
But there’s warmth in numbers.
I must be somewhere near the centre, judging by the heat pressing in on all sides. It’s the only comfort we’re allowed—borrowed body heat from strangers who are just as doomed.
We walk for what feels like forever. Or maybe it’s only minutes. Time doesn’t exist here, just the sound of shuffling feet, muffled sobs, and the occasional barked order.
My senses are scrambled. I don’t know if we’ve gone up or down, if we’ve turned or stayed straight. The ground shifts beneath me, but I can’t tell if it’s stairs or just my own unsteady legs. All I know is that we’re moving. And wherever we’re going, it’s not anywhere we’ll come back from.
“Line them up,”
a sharp voice commands.
In seconds, we’re shoved forward, backs pressed against something cold and unyielding. Metal, maybe. Concrete. It doesn’t matter. It’s not meant to comfort.
I can’t see what’s happening on either side of me, but I hear it—the sickening crack of wood against flesh, followed by muffled cries. Girls trying not to scream and failing miserably.
Footsteps echo around us—more than one set. Heavy boots pacing, circling, closing in. It’s impossible to tell where they are. They move like shadows, everywhere and nowhere all at once.
Then a pair of gloved hands grab me.
They yank my arms above my head, patting me down like I’m livestock at a county fair. A product to be inspected. Measured and claimed all in one.
I don’t speak. I don’t move.
Fear has welded my mouth shut.
I let them pull and prod, my skin crawling with every touch. My breath is shallow, my heart a drumbeat of panic.
“Up straight,”
someone mutters near my ear.
Then—pain.
A sharp, searing sting lashes across my stomach, folding me forward with a gasp I can’t hold back. The welt blooms instantly, hot and angry, a brand of submission.
And still, I say nothing.
“These ones will do. The rest can go back,”
the same clinical voice barks.
I don’t know which group I’ve been sorted into. And for a moment, I hope it’s the ones being sent back.
Back to rot.
Back to be disposed of.
At least that would be quick. Final.
But I’m pushed forward, herded into what feels like a smaller cluster. The shuffle begins again—feet dragging, bodies pressed close, the air thick with fear. The girl beside me is sobbing helplessly beneath her hood.
I reach out blindly, my fingers brushing against her arm beneath the binds of rope. I find her hand and squeeze—just once. Firm. Steady. A silent promise that she’s not alone.
It’s not much.
But it’s all I have to give.
And in a place like this, even the smallest kindness feels like rebellion.