Stolen from the Wrathful Prince

Chapter 1

Chapter One

Ella

They turned off the light.

My only companion just vanished. All I hear now is the camera’s motion as it changes angle, a tiny glowing red light observing me in this windowless cell.

My head pulses like it has been through a car crash, my body aching from the rough concrete beneath me, and I am cold, so cold I know my lips have turned blue, my arms holding my knees, containing the last bit of heat in my body.

Keeping me in a cell is already bad enough, but they had to undress me while I was unconscious, leaving me in my white bra and underwear for them to watch, with blood drying over my face and chest. A shiver runs over my nape, and I let a trembling exhale escape me.

In the dark, trapped in this cell, I am just a bird who has lost its ability to decipher the day from the night, the hours passing.

Time feels like sand slipping through my fingers, leaving me unable to gauge how much has gone by.

How long will I stay here? What will become of me?

Dad? Will Tristan ever… look for me? A sob escapes as pain twists my guts, the idea of him forgetting me feels like tracing sharp lines with a knife over my ribs.

It has been hours, and my stomach growls, my thighs pressed tightly together as I wish I could use a bathroom of some kind.

Not only can’t I see, but each sound meeting my ears carries with it the horror of my imagination.

There are voices, sounds, muffled cries outside, past the door and over the walls.

People, people down here, with me. Why would anyone ever do such a thing?

Who would be evil enough to trap individuals outside the justice system?

I am not a criminal, nor a murderer. My presence here is not logical. Do I mean so much to Tristan for them to trap me here? My teeth chatter uncontrollably. What will they do to me if… The creak of the door shatters my thoughts as I recoil into the corner, wishing the wall could absorb me.

A man enters, his head brushing the ceiling, his body too big for this room, his face unbothered. There is no doubt he could crush the life out of me with just one hand. Searching for something in his back, his arm reveals a gun in his hand as terror contaminates every cell of my being.

No, please, no.

Begging on my knees, I press my palms together, trying to speak, hurting my vocal cords, and still nothing, nothing but silence comes out.

Tears fill my eyes as I see my mom, my dad, and Tristan, all of us eating at a dining table–the one we used to have at home when I was little.

We’re eating and laughing, and my brain–my brain needs to go there, to end this life with the best people in it.

“Up,” he grunts. Gracelessly, with knees buckling from hours on the cement, I manage to stand.

I tremble like a leaf in the corner of the room as he remains in the middle, backlit by the thin spill of light coming from the hallway behind him.

It is the only reason I can make out his shape at all.

His arm rises slowly, the gun lifting with it until he is aiming right at my chest.

Thump.

Thump.

Thump.

Hands clasped above my heart, I pray to every angel above to let me live.

“Twenty minutes,” he grunts. I open my eyes, frowning.

Twenty minutes? What? His free hand searches the front pocket of his trousers and pulls out a stopwatch.

I watch in utter disbelief as he presses the button, and the numbers begin counting down from twenty.

Will he shoot me in twenty minutes? What on earth is happening?

Heaving as if trying to count my breath while facing a tsunami, I pray and pray until I am sure I tried everything I ever could to save my life.

* * *

There is no window in the room, and yet I am certain today is my seventh morning in this hell.

I tried to count it, which wasn’t easy given the lack of natural light, but I’m almost certain.

Seven days have gone by and I’m still here.

Or perhaps I am delirious, which could be true since I just had a cold laugh escape me a moment ago, my eyes going all over the room, and I swear, I swear I saw a bed in the corner.

It was just there, calling me to lie down, but then it disappeared.

I laugh again, but I am not sure my mouth moves as it should.

Is this a normal reaction to sleep deprivation?

Because the same man has been coming every night about eight or nine or fifteen times, every…

what, so often, perhaps fifteen minutes, holding me at gunpoint, forcing me to stand, eyes open, while his twenty-minute clock runs out, then leaving me in complete darkness, which I used to sleep in.

It has been hours and hours of this circus every night, and I am starting to see things that are no longer in the room.

My skin still burns from yesterday. Wash day, the man said.

How naive was I to hope for a bucket and bar of soap?

They tied me to a chair and grabbed a hose at maximum pressure.

Round crimson blemishes are still visible everywhere on my skin, as if I had been left in the sun for days.

I could not scream or fight, and everything hurts.

I have cried so much I do not think my eyes will ever recover.

My hands were tied, and so was my mind. I drifted away to a place where Tristan was holding me, telling me it was okay, that I could do it.

My brain has long forgotten about food and the cold and the danger of being trapped in here, where they could just as easily turn me into meat and eat me without anyone knowing.

All I seem to focus on is the pain behind my eyes, blasting, like an iron claw constantly burning my orbits.

A metallic object connects with the ground, and I jump, scratching my shoulder against the wall.

“Eat,” the man barks, turning the light on again.

I rise to my feet like he trained me to do for the last few days but he shouts, “On the ground!” And I nod, seeing the barrel of his gun pointed at my head, my nakedness reinforcing my pet status.

With a blind hand, I search for the container before me, find its edge, and pull it closer.

My stomach howls, but the scent repulses me, and I push it toward him.

I can’t; this thing keeps making me dizzy and sick.

What is it actually? Some sort of porridge they burned twice before letting it mold for a week?

It reeks like trash, and forcing it down my throat for a seventh day is not happening.

“Eat the damn food,” the man grunts again, his voice tasting like the loss of patience.

I nod, holding my breath, trying so hard to avoid the taste of whatever goo this is.

Blue and beige patches of dough stick to my fingers as I gather the paste and eat it.

Definitely mold. I’ve already lost too much weight; I can’t afford to get any thinner, or I’ll die before anyone rescues me.

I close my eyes, picturing strawberry jam, fresh pancakes, and the overwhelming taste of coffee.

My body convulses despite my attempt to trick it, and I vomit on the floor, earning me a curse from the man.

“Finish it, or I’ll make you eat your vomit too.

” With no desire to do that, I rush to finish the last bit of paste in the bowl, gagging twice but still eating it while praying it's the last time.

I watch him leave as my vision sways. Left.

Right. Up is down, and down…is up. And all, all becomes black again.

Somewhere, far away, I hear Tristan calling my name.

But it is too far. It is not real. Even I know that. All is lost.

All is terribly, irreversibly lost.

* * *

It has been eleven days, and hope has - how fitting is it to say, left the building.

Moldy porridge, wash day, sleep, stopwatch torture, neon-bright light, complete darkness, and the screams–God, the screams everywhere outside.

A drop of water falls from the ceiling and onto the ground.

I waited for a sign, and it never came. My last days on this earth will be in this cage, like a bird, always, wherever I go.

Perhaps this is one of those full-circle moments.

I was born to be a prisoner, and I will die as one.

Lying on the cement is becoming too familiar, and I have to force myself to get up and stretch during the day, which is a tremendously difficult task given my low energy and the constant mental fog from not eating.

Sometimes I see a bird watching me, tilting his little head to the side, wondering why I am here.

Sometimes I see waves crashing at my feet, in gradient purple, their relentless collapse music to my ears.

Right now, all I see is a key in the middle of the room.

A thick, gray key. It cannot be. That would be too easy.

My mind must be playing tricks on me. Crawling, I stretch my arm, trying to catch it.

But the moment I come into contact, the vision evaporates in a cloud of dust.

I need to get out.

Or it will be too late when Tristan finds me.

My mind will have been irreversibly destroyed.

* * *

Make it stop.

Make it stop.

Make it stop.