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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.
Chapter 4
Feebee
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.”
