4. Chapter 4
Chapter 4
Are you doing okay? A green note questioned as I lay on the floor, tired from this stressful ordeal. My eyes traveled up Mercer’s body to see his face, clearly concerned for my well-being.
He looked down at my tear-stained face.
I'd lay here on the floor for hours, sadness rushing from closed eyes.
“He’s gonna hurt us,” I choked out. I tried to move, but the chemicals in my system still made me groggy. I slumped back to the ground, my gifted white shirt dirty and scuffing on the brutal concrete. “Why else would we be here?”
A sick game? The red crayon led the way for the words I already knew weren’t true.
“No. This isn’t a game.” My fingers slipped into my shirt and found the red line trailing down my chest, gently feeling over the scar that still felt raised and looked angry. “He basically told me I should already be dead.”
A tear rolled, dropping into my ear, which muffled the sound of Mercer shifting to a closer sitting position.
What do you mean?
“This is what he wants.”
The confusion on Mercer’s face made it appear he had no clue what I was talking about, so I continued…
“Last year, I had a heart transplant.” I rubbed the scar again, Mercer’s eyes trailing the movement. “I think it belonged to someone he cared about.” Guilt set in, and my words felt heavy on my chest. I needed to get up immediately.
I rolled over, pushing myself up. I used my arms to reposition my heavy legs, stretching them out.
I felt Mercer’s eyes on every movement, his jaw tight as they asked the question the crayon avoided.
“I’m paralyzed. I have no feeling in my legs from nerve damage. That’s why they’re a little skinny.”
How did it happen? He crayoned a quick note.
“A car crash. It happened last year. I was travelling back from a trip to Canada with my mom. We were visiting family. My dad couldn’t come because of work. The weather was really bad, and I got cold. I took my seat belt off for literally seconds to grab a blanket from the backseat. My mom skidded off the road. And that was that.”
“I woke up hours later with my body hanging half out of the shattered front windshield. I couldn’t move. There was blood leaking out of my spine. I was freezing, staring up at the sky with snow twirling down on me. I remembered thinking it looked pretty, but then reality kicked in, and I noticed every injury. And I realized I didn’t feel any of it.”
“I screamed for my mother, but she didn’t answer. Her eyes were closed, and she didn’t wake up. The sharp edge of a snapped tree branch was lost in her chest. I wished I’d never looked. Her pale face and the bright red blood dripping from her nose will haunt me forever.”
“I had to lay there, stuck on the hood, knowing she was dead. I cried for more than a day. And no one showed up for that long. We’d taken a shortcut with not much traffic. The bad weather meant even fewer vehicles than usual.”
“Then a guy in a truck pulled up. I could hear his boots crunching the snow and him saying something in the distance, but I couldn’t make out the words. He vomited before he reached me, and I heard that, too. He thought I was dead because I was too cold to move, and then I sneezed. That was why I needed the heart transplant.”
I glanced to see if Mercer was still listening and he was...he was so immersed that he was trapped in my story. On the sideline, unable to help as I lie frozen on the car, waiting for death.
“I’d caught influenza, a really bad case, and it led to severe myocarditis. I was born with a heart defect so that complicated things. Weeks later, my heart started failing.”
“My father was beside himself. He was suffering through the grief of my mother. He couldn’t cope and started drinking heavily. He lost his job. None of it changed how much he cared for me. He was still a good man, but he wasn’t himself. He couldn’t lose me, too.”
“He got involved with some dodgy people. I think it had to do with money. He lost our insurance when he lost his job, and there wasn’t much time to help me. He insisted on a private transplant, and I think that was how he paid for it. I guess someone didn’t want to give that organ away.”
I couldn’t read Mercer’s face, but there was pain in his eyes, matching mine, and it made me feel more connected to him.
“I don’t see any scars on your body.” I eyed his torso. Lots of tattoos covered him, all hyper-realistic. I wondered if they were memories of the moments of his life he had enjoyed. Did they hide a transplant scar?
“No transplants? Do you know why you’re here?”
No transplants for me, another note confirmed. I’ve unfortunately met a lot of dodgy people from work. I’m assuming he’s one of them, but I haven’t seen his face.
My eyebrows dipped, falling into a frown. Before I could ask him what his job was, another note fell in my lap.
Do you get any physiotherapy to maintain muscle mass?
My eyes widened; my brows lifted. “Are you a doctor?” He talked like a doctor...scribbled like one, too.
I’m an art dealer.
Another note quickly accompanied the one stating his job role.
But I can take an interest in your well-being, can’t I?
I nodded. A gentle swallow stole the moisture from my mouth, and I found myself looking at his. I closed my eyes to his perfect face.
He'd be the exact type of guy I’d like in different circumstances. Tall, muscular, handsome, good lips, teeth—any teeth were good, seeing as my first boyfriend had an incisor that often popped out due to his love for boxing. But Mercer’s were perfect.
Mercer was perfect. And it was nice to feel like someone cared again.
I pinched myself, remembering where we were. Remembering that there was no point in feeling any kind of attraction to this guy, because we would probably never get out of here, and if we did, guys like Mercer liked the Barbies of the world.
I blinked, my eyes opening to see him with the physiotherapy note stuck to his forehead, and it made me laugh.
“I’ve never had physiotherapy.”
We could try it. We have the time.
I choked on a laugh, wondering if that was even true.
I’m good with my hands, another Post-it told me. The winking face in the corner begged to differ.
“That drawing disagrees.”
A silent laugh slipped from him. He liked the banter and needed it as a distraction like I did.
“I am sorry about what I did to you. I—” I feel so guilty, I think it might kill me.
He cut me off, his fingertip silencing my mouth. The slightest breath kissed his tip.
He didn’t want me to be sorry. He shook his head, strands of messy hair falling into his eyes. A second later, his hand left me to rake through it.
I don’t want you to be sorry. I can guess what happened. I feel what happened. I’m sticky and it’s uncomfortable, but I don’t blame you for it.
His handsome face scowled at the glaring red light.
“He hasn’t given a task today.”
Good, a new note said. But don’t worry, it’s probably my turn.
I sucked in a heavy breath and shook my head, not wanting it to be either of us.
Hating the silence I caused, because I was the only one who could speak, I reverted back to distracting him, distracting me in the process as I let a question roam in the air. “So, you’re an art dealer?”
Mission accomplished.
A boastful look that made him look even more handsome crawled onto his face.
“I love that.” I smiled. “I’m a painter, not professionally, but I am. I was, I mean. I haven’t indulged in many hobbies since the accident.” My fingers moved subconsciously, remembering how it felt to hold a paintbrush, how it felt to glide colors across canvasses. I smiled over memories that would never fade.
“My mother was an artist, too. She was semi-successful. Her name was Madison Thelassa-Serrano. Have you heard of her?”
A curt and respectful nod told me he had and that he respected her work.
She was very good. He handed the note to me. The crayon was blunt now. He ripped at the paper around it that stated the obvious color, tearing it down so it wouldn’t prevent him from writing future notes.
“She was amazing,” I agreed.
He dropped the paper to the floor, scrunched in a tiny ball, and flicked it across the room. We watched it bounce off the wall, having had little amusement here.
Bet you follow your father, was the first note written by the exposed crayon. He was taunting me. A playful bite of his lip made it obvious there was no real malice in his words.
“I don’t, actually, and if we ever get out of here, you’ll be begging for my art.”
Waving a hand at me, he laughed, again silently, but it felt like that was the truest thing I could ever say.
And I loved it.
I loved that he had hope to share with me.
But that hope faded away, a vacuum pulling it to the exit, usually bolted shut but open for a second.
A blade slid toward us, even sharper than the last to be in this room.
The room rattled; the heavy metal door slamming shut.
“Good evening, Feebee and Mercer. I’m glad you are so comfortable together, seeing as I haven’t grown bored of you yet.” The robotic voice caused a ringing in my ears that an abusive finger tried to get rid of.
Shivers ran down my body, fear coating me in sweat...Mercer, too. He stared up at the red light as I did, our bodies inching closer until they bumped. He wrapped an arm around me, trying to comfort me...but my heart still raced, my mouth grew dry, and my anxiety hit the roof, knowing what was coming.
My fingers reached for my hair, twirling strands and pulling them out, something I had started doing when I woke up in the hospital without a mother. And when I tried and failed to manage the stress that came with being a transplant recipient. The fear of my body rejecting the heart the way this creep rejected me having it, made my first few months with it torture.
Mercer pushed my hand from my hair, pulling it into his fist and holding it. Another wave of appreciation washed over me, and I rode it, letting it take me closer to him as I nuzzled into his tattooed chest.
“Mercer, it’s your turn for a solo challenge.”
My fingers dug into his straining chest.
“The blade in the room is for you to use. Pick it up.”
Mercer glared at the red dot; challenge prominent in his eyes. Hate burning inside him, seeping into the room through flared nostrils.
“If Feebee hasn’t told you yet, she is the recipient of a heart transplant.”
If...meaning he hadn’t listened in on our conversations together...yet.
Our eyes met for a second, no doubt giving the creep a clue what we had been talking about.
“That heart belonged to the woman I loved. And I did not want it given to someone else. And because it was, I was left heartbroken.” We both sat motionless as he continued. “The scar on her chest sits jagged, a perfect crack in the heart you’ll carve around it, matching mine.”
Mercer’s head began to shake, the tension inside him rattling through his body.
“If you do this, you’ll be rewarded with a commode. You must both be bursting by now. Remember, Mercer, you appreciated my generosity before we had a guest.” The maniac chuckled.
I visibly shook, the voice, as much as its words, putting me on the knife’s edge, balancing between wanting to die and begging to live. I sucked my lip into my mouth, refusing to beg because this creep had already proved it wouldn’t help.
“Now, pick up the knife. I will only warn you once. If you fail, there will be a punishment for one of you.”
Mercer shook his head, determined that he wouldn’t hurt me.
“You have three minutes. Don’t go too deep. We don’t want her dying...today.”
Mercer’s head was still shaking. Faster, his decision cemented. I stopped him, placing a hand on his face before he snapped his neck.
“I won’t do it,” he mouthed, first to me, then to that little red light that terrorized us both. My hand left his face as he twisted to face it.
“I won’t fucking do it,” he mouthed again.
The ticking of the clock counted down to my doom. My body shook, eyeing the blade, but I tried to hide my fear, pulling my quivering lip behind chattering teeth.
“Tick, tock, Mercer.” The monster laughed.
The knife lay on the floor, waiting to be picked up. Mercer didn’t move, his head shaking again. Part of me was grateful he didn’t want to put one of his badly etched designs on my skin.
But my churning gut knew this would have to happen.
Mercer’s eyes grew watery from staring at the bright light. Mine, for another reason entirely.
The knife still waited for the man who wouldn’t move. Only when my arms started dragging me over to it did he look my way. I stopped moving, turning back to see his hand close around my ankle.
“No,” he mouthed in warning.
“We have to. It’s not our choice.” He wasn’t happy with my words and looked positively fuming when I stretched to claim the knife.
I knew his grip would have yanked me back if it didn’t mean the corrosive concrete would scrape off layers of my skin. My hand wrapped around the heavy metal handle, and I knew by the weight of it that our captor meant business.
He had told Mercer not to go too deep, but this blade was heavy. A little too much pressure with the tip in my skin could do so much damage.
“Try not to go too deep.” I feared the worst. I envisioned a slow and painful death where blood rushed from my wound and up my throat, thanks to the lung I feared him puncturing. I opened my hand, the heavy blade balancing in my palm.
He accepted it.
“One minute remaining.”
I laid back, closing my eyes before I hit the floor.
Metal rattled in the distance, that heavy blade bouncing off the far wall. My eyes sprung open, moving instantly to the blade as I shot back up. It had flown through the air like a boomerang, hitting that camera. But the red light still blared, just in a different direction. A low whining hum pierced the silence as the camera moved back to face us.
“You have to!” I practically screamed. Begged. Begged for him to hurt me because we had some control here. The smallest amount...but it was something. It was more than we would get from any punishment.
“Please...” my fingers pressed into his tense, broad shoulders.
He took a deep breath. And then refused.
“I won’t,” he mouthed silently, taking my hand in his as the voice counted back from ten.
“You have to.” My panic clawed at him, using my nails to do it as I broke from his hold.
“Three, two...one.”
Our time was up.
Terror darted around the room. Mine. I begged the red light.
“No. No…Don’t punish us, please. Don’t punish us. You can’t. He was trying to do the right thing by me. Please. I’ll do—”
Mercer’s hand wrapped around my mouth, keeping the guilt inside me as he prevented me from offering my soul to this devil. I tried to peel it off, to break free, but he was too strong. Too determined.
“You failed. And for that, one of you gets a day out today.”
We looked at each other, neither of us expecting that to mean a trip to the beach.
“Feebee, as it was Mercer who failed today’s task, you get to choose,” the voice boomed again. “How good is that heart in your chest? Is it made of gold?”
“It obviously is to you,” I sneered, nostrils flaring with rage.
Mercer handed me a note he wrote while I seethed.
Pick me.
I worried for him. It twinkled in my eyes, all the sadness and pain over potentially ending his life.
He continued handing me notes.
It’s fine. Pick me.
“We don’t know what he’ll do to you.”
He could do worse to you. Do not put yourself forward.
I pushed those torturous thoughts from my head. Ignored the voice that whispered what goes around comes around.
My head moved from side to side. Salty tears stuck my face to Mercer’s naked chest.
My eyes, wide and pink-rimmed, moved from the latest note and stared up at him as I waited for an alternative solution to pop into my head.
It’s okay to put yourself first.
You don’t owe me anything.
Pick me.
“You don’t have to volunteer yourself.” I shook my head as if that made my point stronger. My glossy brown hair caught on my shirt, his smell all over it, all over me. His eyes landed on me, on my chest beating a little wilder over what the fuck was happening here.
He wrote me another message, something to hold on to while I didn’t have his hand.
I’ll be back.
I always come back.
Pick me.
And I did. I was almost sick with the thick taste of guilt as I turned away from him and to the camera, where I voiced my choice.
I chose him.
“My heart isn’t made of gold. I choose him.”
Something clicked. The fine hairs on my body floated into the air, drifting from my body and the danger I faced.
Two men barreled into the room, the heavy door crashing into the concrete wall. They were dressed in black suits like they were fucking undertakers.
“Don’t,” I begged again, Mercer’s hand finally leaving me as he stood, his height rivaling theirs.
One moved in, and the other filled the doorway, preventing my hopes of escape. I didn’t move. The man in the doorway was taken from my view, Mercer’s legs replacing him. He stood in front of me...protecting me.
The man neared, a hood hiding everything but his eyes. Blood-red paint distorted every other feature.
A blade dropped between the invading man’s knuckles, cutting through the ropes holding my fears in place.
“Mercer!” No one heard more than a croak from my dry throat.
The man in black moved closer again, the light above dancing on his blade. He was almost on us.
“Mercer!”
Limbs moved quickly, a flurry of fast fists and knees flying around. Mercer tried his luck with a punch, knocking the man to the ground. He straddled him, sitting on his chest, when the sharp little blade dragged across his chest. My scream ripped into him, deeper than the knife, and feeling all the threats in the room, his feet pulled him back before real damage could be done.
He darted from the man to me, scooping me up and placing me in a corner. I didn’t want to let him go. My hands tried desperately to hold on to him as he eagerly tried to break away. Thin nails left dainty imprints on his skin where I tightly clutched him.
“I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.” I reached for his hand, but he pulled back, using it to reach for the bigger knife.
“Ah, ah,” the robotic voice rang out as his hand covered the silver handle. “Don’t do that. You had your chance to use it earlier. You chose not to. If you use it now, Feebee will be punished, too.”
Mercer visually tensed, all his frustrations seeping out as his hand moved away from the blade. The rage stayed, and he vibrated with it.
“Good. Now, stand up, and like a good boy, walk to the fucking door, and they’ll leave with you. One more attempt at playing the hero, and I’ll show her just how little you can do to protect her.”
He looked back at me, his shoulders dropping, his pretty blue eyes glossed and apologetic.
I couldn’t beg him to stay. I understood why he had to go, but it still hurt, watching him stand tall, his back straightening. Watching each slow step as his sock-covered feet moved him to the door.
The man with the blade walked behind him, stopping as they approached the door. I didn’t protest when he stopped dead, his head turning before his body as he moved in my direction to retrieve the blade. If I could have, I would have kicked it to him, wanting him nowhere near me, but instead, I stayed still, stayed silent, in the corner with my legs tucked awkwardly.
He grinned at me on his exit, an unflattering smile revealing stained teeth. And then the door closed, and everything I felt rushed out, and I screamed.
I fucking screamed.