3. Chapter 3
Chapter 3
Someone’s fingers clamped around my hand, squeezing gently, pulling me through the sludge that encouraged me to sleep. My eyes blinked, struggling to stay open.
The man sharing this room was no longer asleep.
He was no longer bound and chained to the wall, either.
His eyes were opened and hypnotizing, making me believe for one second that life wasn’t as bad as it actually was. The palest blue dug into me, straight into my heart—or whoever’s heart it was—and pulled more tears to my eyes.
“I did something awful to you.”
The pretty blue stare dropped from my face and fell to the concrete. He knew. He already knew what I had done. I could see it written all over his face.
And it made me feel worse.
His head lolled back in my direction, and he took in my body, shaking with cold and lined with a thousand goosebumps to prove it. His gaze lingered on my chest, and I didn’t even try to hide. I felt like I owed him something for taking from him. Not that this would be something he would want in return.
He made no comments. Spat no hate. Though I waited for his venom to hit me in the face, I apologized when it didn’t. “I’m so sorry. So, so sorry.”
He reached into his pocket, pulling out a small half-used pad of sticky notes and a red crayon. I blinked again, my heavy eyes losing the image of him. When I opened them, a message sat on the top sheet.
That’s a big scar.
I took a deep breath, grateful that he focused on the history of my heart surgery and not what I had done to him. Grateful that he would still talk to me when I had no one else in the world.
I simply nodded and looked away.
The knife in the distance was gone, replaced with a tray lined with fruits and vegetables, all drying and growing tasteless. They had been out for a while.
“Where’s the knife?” I asked, noting it wasn’t in the distance.
I scanned his clothes and rigid position to try to discover if he could be hiding it to enact real revenge.
He responded by staring at me like he had no idea what I was talking about.
“Can you talk…with words?” My unsympathetic tone sounded cruel, even to my own ears.
He pulled off the written note and stuck the green sheet on the wall to my left. After writing another message, he handed it to me.
I stutter. Badly. I have since I was little. Since my parents died. But my voice is different now, through injury—
His words ran off the page that I added to the wall with his other message as he penned the rest of what he wanted to say.
Last year, my girlfriend and I were attacked. Someone tried to cut out my tongue. Apparently, I was too loud. Karma sucks.
My eyes widened in shock. But I found it amazing that he could make a joke at a time like this. It lifted the depression creeping in.
I gave him a sad smile, and he gave me a bigger one, straight white teeth hiding behind the curve of his full lips.
A third note made it to the wall as I pulled it from the pad, distracting him. He wrote another.
Are you okay? You were asleep for a while. That note joined the others, decorating this room with a bit of color.
“I’m cold.”
His hands rubbed at my small biceps, defeating the army of goosebumps. I was glad he was no longer confined. His hands were free, the chains replaced by a thick red graze on each wrist. Free to unbutton his shirt and slip it over his broad shoulders before gifting it to me. I stretched out my heavy arms, happy to accept his generosity, and hide beneath the cotton. He and I froze at the sight of a needle hanging from my arm, the barrel empty, the tip buried in my skin, crusty blood clinging to it.
“What the fuck is that!” I panicked, my voice louder than intended. I gripped the barrel and tossed the needle at the wall. “What do you think was in there?” I asked him, as if he had the answers to all my questions.
He saw the fear on my face, and tried to calm me, quickly jotting another note.
It was probably just a sedative.
He shrugged.
He’s giving you the chance to prove yourself. He doesn’t want you dead...yet.
I kept this message in my hand longer, trying to understand it as I creased it between my fingers.
The man, whose name I didn’t know, stood tall and menacing, his personality soft and soothing. He stepped away from me, returning with the drying food. I tucked his note into the pocket on his shirt after I slipped my arms in and buttoned it up, but I didn’t have a reason not to add it to the wall with the others.
I forgot all about the note as he placed the food between us. His head bobbed—initiating ladies first—and his hair fell into his pretty eyes.
Not a fruit person?
“Fruit is okay.”
When I didn’t eat, he edged the tray closer, yet another note accompanying it.
What’s your favorite thing to eat?
I almost wanted to ask what was the point in telling him, feeling like I would never enjoy the earthy taste again, but I appreciated this man’s efforts to talk to me. To keep me sane.
“Anything with lentils,” I mumbled, not wanting to give the person watching tips on what my favorite foods were should he choose to poison me.
My shaky fingers reached for a slice of watermelon. The man in front of me wrapped his hand around mine, steadying me and brushing my skin in a way that pacified me.
I smiled, this one feeling more real as our eyes met, and I fed myself.
Undignified, and with a very full mouth, as this dry fruit tasted better than expected, having not eaten for who knew how long, I asked, “What’s your name?”
He wiped his fingers, ridding any proof that he had joined me for the most unconventional dinner date.
He wrote his name—Mercer Novaletti—on a fresh sheet. His pouty lips curved as he granted me another smile.
Novaletti, that sounded…Italian, maybe? That would explain his tan and dark features. Not those piercing blue eyes though.
“I’m Feebee,” I said with a mirroring expression. “Mercer is an unusu—” I cut myself off. That wasn’t really what I wanted to say. “Mercer, I need to tell you what the man holding us—”
Mercer waved his hand, his face showing understanding, like he, too, had to do bad things while here.
I took another piece of fruit, and we ate until the plate was clear. I offered him the last piece because the creep in charge hadn’t even provided an even amount of food, but Mercer shook his head, insisting my rumbling stomach wanted it more.
After the plate was empty and our bellies full, a familiar voice sounded.
My stomach and eyes rolled in sequence. Now back at my side, Mercer stared over at me, seeing my reaction. It felt like he had been here longer than me and had already become desensitized to what went on in this room of filth.
“Today’s task is an easy one.”
I took a breath, my back straightening. A note landed in my lap. One, I hadn’t even seen Mercer write.
I picked it up and read it silently.
We can do this.
The look I shot him hit like a bullet, one that delivered the painful truth that I wasn’t so sure.