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Chapter
Eight
“Speak when you are angry and you will make the best speech you will ever regret.”
- Ambrose Bierce
Sofiya
When I finally opened my eyes, a piercing cold and an unsettling disorientation gripped me. I was enveloped in a stark white room that felt eerily sterile—like stepping into a hospital or a retirement home, places devoid of warmth or life.
White, for me, had always been the color of clinical detachment.
In contrast, colors like green, blue, and red held profound significance.
Green signifies hope, peace, and happiness.
Blue stands for fear, sadness, and anxiety.
But red—my favorite—encapsulates the full spectrum of human experience: life, passion, hatred, love, and pain. Red is woven into the fabric of our daily existence, a reminder of both our joys and our struggles.
While some may argue that we are merely shades of black and white, I believe we are all unique hues of red—each of us distinct yet interconnected.
After blinking a few times, I tried to orient myself, staring at the cold, unyielding ceiling. My attempt to lift my hands revealed they were unnervingly heavy.
What the hell?
He handcuffed me?
Desperately, I tried to free myself, but my efforts only left me more exhausted.
The room was a bleak, oppressive space, illuminated only by a narrow beam of light from a tiny window. The bed I lay on felt like a slab of concrete, discomfort gnawing at my spine. Panic began to rise in my throat as I struggled to sit up, my heart pounding with fear.
Why was it so cold? Where the hell was I?
With trembling hands and sweat-soaked palms, I managed to push myself to my feet, breathing in short, ragged gasps.
“I don’t have any other choice but to crawl,” I muttered, frustration seeping into my voice. “Why now, of all times, do I have to have a panic attack? Come on, Sofiya, get it together!”
Summoning every ounce of strength, I threw myself onto the floor with a loud thud, determined to escape this nightmare.
Crawling like a wounded animal, I made my way towards the door, each movement feeling like an eternity.
Just as I reached for the handle, the door swung open violently, narrowly missing my head. My heart leaped into my throat as I looked up to see Dimitri, his eyes glinting with malice and a sinister grin spreading across his face.
“You spend more time on the floor than our average whores, Sofiya. Maybe we should sign you up at our brothel downtown. I’m sure plenty of men would be willing to pay for your services, including me,” Dimitri sneered, his yellow teeth on full display.
Kneeling beside me, he reached for a strand of my loose hair, but I tried to turn away.
His grip tightened on my jaw, forcing me to meet his gaze despite my resistance.
Suddenly, he grabbed me by the waist and hoisted me off the ground, pressing me against the wall. His tongue trailed up my neck, and his erection pressed against my stomach, making bile rise in my throat as his hands gripped my hips tightly.
“Please, let me go,” I begged, desperation creeping into my voice.
“You know, when the boss said he had a daughter, I think he forgot to mention how fuckable she was,” Dimitri chuckled, his hands roaming over my body. “What do you think? Should I make you my whore?”
As his hands pushed my t-shirt higher, I winced, trying to fight him off.
