7. Sara
Sara
The days pass in a blur, and despite his injuries, Gregor does everything for me. The black and purple bruises marring his skin and the way he grimaces in pain as he moves trigger a deep-seated shame inside me. Although I want to avert my eyes from the damage, I force myself to look.
This is who Dante truly is. A man with no compunctions about hurting other people to cause me pain.
Gregor brings me food and water three times a day, and each time I scream for Dante or beat at the door.
Eventually, I stop banging, stop yelling. I salvage the torn material of my dress, cinching it so it covers most of my skin. On the second day, Dante sends Gregor in with a bucket, rags, and some disinfectant.
“The boss wants me to clean up the mess in the corner.”
Messes like the vomit that’s been rotting in my cell for days. I must have become immune to the smell because I almost forgot it was there.
As he works, I inspect Gregor’s still-prominent injuries. The guy can barely see out of his swollen eye, and he favors his side in a way that suggests broken ribs.
I tell him as much, but he just stares at me, blank-faced.
“The boss wants me to clean,” Gregor repeats. The pity glimmering in his gaze causes resentment to rear its ugly head.
“Well, the boss can go to hell.” This beast of a man doesn’t offer a response, but his eyes narrow, and his lips tighten.
He doesn’t like me insulting Dante, which means he’s loyal.
Good to know. I squirrel the information away for later use.
“You’re injured, Gregor. If you overdo it, you could end up with a punctured lung.
And if that goes untreated, air will enter the pleural space every time you inhale, and the increased intrathoracic pressure will compress your heart and vessels. ”
He gawks as I throw my arms up. “And then you die!”
Attempting to maneuver around me, he whips the bucket out of range. His mouth firms into a stubborn line.
I heave a frustrated sigh. “I can’t let you do it.”
Lifting my chin, I press a gentle hand to his injured chest, but even my soft touch causes him to flinch in pain.
Guilt stabs me. “Dante gave you a job you’re physically incapable of doing in the state you’re in.
Either give me the bucket, or you can march your ass back to his office and tell him you didn’t follow his instructions.
Which do you think will piss him off more? ”
Gregor’s jaw flexes as he scrutinizes my expression. Whatever he sees must convince him I’m serious, because he sighs and hands over the bucket.
Humming my approval, I settle in to clean up my own vomit. Somehow, I manage to only gag twice as I complete the unpleasant task.
Hours pass before I see anyone again after that.
Eventually, Gregor arrives with a peanut butter and jelly sandwich and a plastic cup of water.
He stands in the corner, waiting for me to finish, and I wince every time he inhales, the crackle of his lungs like a physical pain in my own body.
When I’m done, he locks the manacle around my neck, wheezing and avoiding eye contact.
Once he’s gone, I curl up against the wall as best I can with the collar around my neck and cry until I can’t breathe. I want to disappear. How many more people will suffer because of me? First, it was my mother, then Jeremy. Now, not even Angela and Gregor are safe.
This goes on for days.
Before, I never understood what Dante was capable of, but I’m slowly learning. He’s a remorseless man. For him, empathy’s nothing more than a sign of weakness. It’s just something to mock and stomp out in exchange for obedience.
While I languish away in my cell, time is marked by the daily meal delivery.
The dank air settles into my lungs and my skin, and every time I use the toilet in the corner to relieve myself, I want to expire from mortification.
The one thing that grounds me is picking at my skin.
The tiny bursts of pain vibrate through my body like static shocks.
Every waking moment serves as a reminder that I’m dirty and exposed and not even worthy of a fork to eat my food with. Like I might suddenly transform into some movie assassin and use cutlery to murder one of the two other people who step foot in this hellhole.
Dante is conspicuously missing. For some reason, that fact peeves me more than it should. Seriously, what was the point in ripping me away from my life just to dump me in a cage and forget about me?
I’m not surprised, though. My dad threw me away just as easily.
My appetite dwindles to nothing. At night, I’m too afraid of accidentally strangling myself with the manacle to sleep more than a few fitful hours here and there, and during the day, I’m too on edge to nod off for more than a few minutes here and there.
I’ve spent a lot of time staring at the cement walls, praying to whoever’s listening to help me escape and get back to Jeremy.
One morning after I pick at my apple slices and dry toast, Angela unlocks the cell. I’m so relieved to see a familiar face that I throw my arms around her and hug her tightly. “He didn’t hurt you, did he?”
Her solemn laugh bears no resemblance to her usual cackle. “Nope. Scared the hell out of me, though.” She pats my back. “But you know how he gets. I’m used to it by now.”
No. I don’t know how he gets.
Painfully aware of how terrible I must smell, I release her. Angela glances over her shoulder at Gregor, who observes from the doorway. He hesitates before nodding, and Angela presses a phone into my hands.
I blink, confused. “Why are you giving me this?”
“Jeremy’s been looking for you. Dante messaged him as you the night he took you, but your brother’s sharp. And he’s getting antsy. Dante wants you to text and reassure him you’re all right. You have two minutes.” Her voice lowers. “Don’t do anything stupid, Sara. Please.”
My fingers shake as I type out a weak explanation about how a different hospital called me in to cover for an injured nurse, claiming that I’m not sure when I’ll be back.
I hope it’s enough. I’ve transferred to other locations before with little notice, specifically during the pandemic when other hospitals were short-staffed, so this isn’t completely new.
The excuse should buy me some time to figure out how to get out of here.
Gregor snatches the phone, checks the message, and leads Angela out of my cell.
Once they’re gone, I collapse onto my cot.
I missed a perfect opportunity to ask Jeremy for help, but I can’t afford to have him come after me.
I trust Dante to keep his word and leave my brother alone, but that flies out the window if Jeremy starts asking questions he shouldn’t.
I trust Dante to keep his word? Really? The guy who stalked and kidnapped me?
I constantly tell myself to forget the version of Dante I knew because he never existed, but I can’t seem to follow my own advice.
When the cell door swings open again, I expect Gregor, or even Angela.
Shock electrifies my system as Dante himself strides in.
My mouth drops open. “What are you—?”
He scoops me up bridal style, ignoring my terrified yelp, and carries me out of the room. As we pass the three empty cells, I note dark stains on the concrete that look a little too much like blood.
He leads me to a chair positioned over a drain. Against the far wall, I spy a sink and a showerhead.
I have no trouble picturing all the nightmares that went on down here before I arrived. All the evidence of human suffering he’s erased. Even now, bleach stings my nostrils, the sharp scent still lingering in the air, probably permanently ingrained in the atoms of this place.
If I don’t figure a way out of this, he’ll wash away the memory of me, too, like I was nothing more than a blemish on his life.
I tied my torn dress together for some semblance of modesty, but the edges fall open as Dante carts me to the showerhead. He flips on the knob, and a jet of cold water hits me, soaking the dirty material.
I arch like a cat, my nails digging into his shoulders until I squirm loose and recoil. “Get off me!”
His jaw ticks. “You reek.”
He reaches for me again, catching my wrist before I can slap him and jerking me to his chest. I shiver as the biting cold rains down on my back.
Dante doesn’t seem to notice the chill as he rips off the rest of my dress, leaving me in my bra and panties.
For a long moment, his eyes devour me as if he remembers laying claim to my body. Darkness clouds his gaze, and my next shiver has nothing to do with the temperature.
My teeth chatter, and I wrap my arms around my breasts.
“Is this what gets you off now? Stripping me of every last dignity?” When he doesn’t respond, I curl my fingers, fighting the urge to claw his face.
“If I’d known you were a psycho who spends his days torturing innocents, I never would have been stupid enough to fall for you. ”
He flinches, though the movement’s so minute that I can’t even be sure of it. Without warning, he sticks his fingers between his lips and whistles so sharply that I wince.
From behind him, a massive German Shepard with a scar down one eye stalks forward on stiff legs. The dog’s lips peel back from sharp teeth, and the low snarl sets my nerves on edge. I retreat into the water, which cocoons me in a liquid curtain that grows warmer every second.
“Pistol.” Dante’s attention remains fixed on me as he speaks. Against my will, I notice how his damp shirt, now transparent, clings to the ridges in his stomach and the firm muscles of his upper chest. “Stay.”
At first, I assume he’s issuing the order to me, but then Pistol huffs and sits. Once the animal settles, Dante spins on his heel. With my dripping, tattered dress in hand, he heads back toward my cell.
“Wai—”
When I try to follow, Pistol snaps those razor-sharp teeth. I stumble back, putting more distance between me and the beast.