8. Chapter 8
Growing discomfort tugged her out of sleep, dragging Yareli from its sweet oblivion.
For a moment, her movements were languid; she sat up, rubbing the crust off her eyes and wondering when she had fallen asleep.
She shivered and opened them, taking in the dirty, dark walls that surrounded her.
A whimper escaped her lips at the iron bars that ran from the floor to the ceiling.
“No,” she whispered. “No, no, no.”
Like a torrent, flashbacks hit her—the black-haired woman, the scarred-face man, and Don.
It hadn’t been a nightmare. Her mind went silent, the situation’s severity dampening the noise in her head.
She pressed her face against the cold iron bars, but she saw nothing other than empty cells.
Her calls for help went unanswered. She tugged the cell door, and when that was unsuccessful, she inspected the rust-covered bucket in the corner.
It reeked of old piss. With nothing else to do, she sat on a haystack, staring at the ceiling.
The smell of mildew told her she was underground, but she had no idea where she was.
Helplessness—the kind that filled her veins with an icy liquid seeping into the very marrow of her bones—pervaded her.
She was alone, cold, and in danger. Her stomach grumbled—and hungry.
Time passed, and Yareli fell into a fitful sleep.
The next time she woke up, there was a tray with nothing but a cup of water.
She paused, remembering the Fae woman’s warning about food and drink.
Odorless and colorless, it seemed harmless enough.
She chanced it, downing it in one gulp. She held her breath and smiled when nothing adverse occurred.
She considered the bucket in the corner, but squatting over it seemed crude.
Eventually, her bladder won, and her cheeks burned as she covered herself the best she could.
Relieved she didn’t have a cellmate, she returned to her cot and lay her head against the wall.
The grimy, low ceiling pressed down on her, reminding her of her imprisonment.
A sigh escaped her. She had fucked up big time.
It was just her luck to get kidnapped by some vindictive asshole.
Would August save her? He had to, she thought.
To believe otherwise would break her composure.
Yareli didn’t think of her family, refusing to open that can of worms. She lay down, determined to sleep.
Whatever was in store for her, sleep could only help.
Wake up .
A faint but stern voice woke Yareli, and when she opened her eyes, a large boot was inches from her face. Yelping, she pushed up against the wall, the sharp hay scratching her palms. It was the scarred-face man.
He retracted his foot. “A shame you woke up.”
“Where am I, pig?” Yareli spat. She was on high alert, the gears in her mind whirring from one thought to another. Her previous resignation was all but forgotten as the culprit of her trouble made an appearance.
“As I thought.” He sighed, sounding disappointed. “You need to be taught your place.” He grabbed her arm and dragged her out of the cell.
Yareli protested, fighting to tear her arm from his iron grip, but when her shoulder threatened to pop out of its joint, she switched methods, kicking at his legs. Unfazed, he stopped abruptly and backhanded her. Her head snapped to the side, and blood rushed down her nose.
“Fuck you,” she hissed, her ears ringing.
Her vision blurred, preventing her from taking note of the layout, and all she could do was move one foot in front of the other. He shoved her through a door and into a cold, metal chair. The room’s bright light was harsh against its white walls, and she blinked furiously at the sudden change.
Despite the tremor in her hands, she held her head high, indignation fueling her reckless words. “At least tell me your name so I know who to curse.”
He didn’t respond; instead, he held a cup filled with clear liquid toward her.
She refused to take it, sneering at him. “No.”
He exhaled and pulled her hair back, tipping her head backward and pouring the liquid in her mouth.
She sputtered, refusing to ingest it, but the stream was endless, and her chest burned.
Unable to hold her breath any longer, she swallowed, the liquid scalding her throat like alcohol.
Satisfied, the scarred-face man released her hair, and she slumped forward, gasping for air.
A numbing sensation tingled in her abdomen, spreading outward until Yareli could no longer move her body. Her eyes widened; the liquid had been a paralytic. He slid a pair of white gloves on, a glint in his eyes turning them predatory.
“Humans are fragile things. I can mend a broken body a hundred times over, but once their mind goes…” He ran a finger down her face. “They stay broken.” He picked her up, setting her down on a metal table. “Reeducation requires discipline.”
There was a clink, and he showed her his tool of choice—a scalpel. Clarity surged through her mind’s chaos and told her she was going to die. He brought the tool to her face, a smile warping his features into a thing of nightmares. He pressed down, and pain burst forth.
Among Yareli's generation, listening to true crime podcasts was popular.
It was both a morbid curiosity and repulsion that drew her to them.
What compelled someone to commit such atrocities?
It was unimaginable to her to willingly hurt another living being.
And the poor victim? They had been at the wrong place at the wrong time.
Thus, her current predicament was due to an undeniable fact—she had simply been at the cafe at the wrong time.
She pictured the episode about her disappearance in her mind.
Its focus would be the case’s peculiarities—the destroyed cafe, Don’s critical condition, and her disappearance.
Her devastated family on display for the world to hear.
Her mother? Crying. Her father? Increasingly absent.
And her brother? He would never forgive her.
After all, hadn’t it been her choice to work at a questionable cafe?
At these thoughts, she painstakingly brought her knees up to her chest and held them tight.
She clenched her jaw, refusing to cry, and she banished any remaining thoughts about her family.
She stretched her legs, pain flaring on her abdomen where the scarred-face man had repeatedly cut, having abandoned the scalpel early into the session.
For a Fae preaching about discipline, he sure seemed to lack it.
Every slice had been in penance for her existence as a human, like Yareli had any choice in the matter.
But reasoning was out of the question. After all, he was torturing her under the guise of “reeducation.”
Earlier, a splitting headache had woken her from the spotty sleep she had managed to steal.
Looking for relief, she had crawled to her cell’s bars and had pressed her forehead against their cold surface.
Eventually, the headache had subsided enough for her to fall asleep again.
Now, she was awake despite desiring sleep.
She knew she needed to escape, but fatigue glued her to the floor.
Scar-face had healed her wounds, but the phantom pain lingered—a reminder of her humiliation.
She granted herself one more nap. When she woke up, she would look for a way out.
Only the next time she woke up, Scar-face had returned. Anger mixed with fear, causing a trembling that rumbled her bones.
“Up.”
He hadn’t cursed at her, but she heard its echo in his tone. Vermin. Pathetic. Disgusting. The slew of unspoken curses came in rapid succession, each louder than the last, and she bit her cheek, clearing her mind with pain.
He pulled her arm as he had the last time.
Prepared, Yareli dug her heels into the ground, hooking her free hand onto one of her cell’s metal bars.
The sudden jerk took him by surprise, and he lost his grip.
She shot past him down the dimly lit hallway, eyes scanning the mostly empty cells.
She caught occasional glimpses of a lump, or an awkwardly angled arm, but no one stirred.
Unease hit her, and she stopped in her tracks.
Scar-face wasn’t running after her.
A metal door stood a few feet in front of her, its rust-covered surface mocking her.
Escape was within reach; all she had to do was keep going.
Yet, it was like her feet were cemented to the ground.
Why wasn’t he chasing her? The back of her scalp prickled as she stood there, prisoner of her indecision.
She had to go. Swallowing, she inched forward and swung the door open.
Her stomach dropped. On the other side of the door, Scar-face leaned against the wall, picking at his nails.
He hadn’t chased her because he didn’t need to.
He had magic, and Yareli… she had nothing.
He slapped her, and she stumbled. He hit her again, and she slammed into the ground.
Her ears rang. From the injury or from the blow to her pride, she didn’t know.
She yelped as Scar-face dragged her by her hair, and all she could do was protect her face until they reached the “reeducation” room.
He slung her over his shoulder, dropping her onto the metal chair without care. He didn’t bother with the paralytic this time; instead, he tied her down with leather straps. He grabbed her chin, squeezing until she whimpered.
“You will learn you are nothing.”
“I am…” Yareli said, gritting her teeth, “not nothing.”
He sneered, eyes lighting up as if she had uttered the very words he had hoped she would, and the world went dark. A familiar scene replayed in her mind.