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My pulse quickens, realizing the gravity of my predicament. I’m trapped, alone in this sterile enclosure. Panic mixes with confusion as I try to recall how I ended up here.
Restaurant.
Brittney.
Car bomb.
Rick.
Panic.
Chaos.
Masked men.
I reach out to touch my shoulder, where I know the injection hit me. They drugged me.
God, I hope Brittney got out safely.
And poor Rick. I can only hope that bomb wasn’t my car.
I push the disheveled strands of hair that fall across my face away. My eye catches on my wrist and one of Callum’s black hair bands among the various metal armbands that dangle decoratively on my forearm. I grab it and tie my messy hair up. I look down; my black vest and jeans are dirty and dusty.
Fear and determination flicker in my eyes as I glance around, taking stock of my confined surroundings. It’s unsettling, to say the least.
Despite the chill in the air, a bead of sweat forms on my forehead as I register the ever-watchful eye of the camera. It's a silent witness, a reminder that I’m not alone and that every move I make is being scrutinized.
Amid the uncertainty, I gather my strength, a mixture of fear and determination, and stand up. The silent, oppressive atmosphere amplifies the weight of my isolation, leaving me to wonder what awaits beyond the confines of my cold, walled cell.
“Come on, asshole!” I yell at the camera. “You weren’t shy last time you kidnapped me. Let’s get this shit started. We both know you’re dying to fuck me.”
I can still feel the knife Callum gave me lodged tightly in between my breasts, held up in my bra. Now all I need is this prick’s hairy dick to stab it, and I’ll make sure this time to leave him with a souvenir of my own.
I have no idea how long I’ve been here, an hour, maybe two. Seems like several. I have no idea how to tell the length of time since I came to it. I’m shitting myself, this asshole holds no mercy, and I know he likes to play cat-and-mouse games, especially when he keeps me on a chained leash.
The only positive aspect I have against this ordeal is that I’m sure it’s the same asshole who abducted me the last time, and this time, I know I have four men who will comb the earth to find me. Plus, I’m already anticipating that things will get terrible for me.
At least this time, I’m not confused aboutwhatandwhy.
Although thewhyis questionable.
I’m sitting here on the damp floor, huddled with my hands on my knees in an attempt to stop myself from trembling. Maybe it’s the cold that causes me to shiver, or perhaps the stone-cold fear of what I already know could happen to me.
The thoughts of what I could have done better to prevent this flood my mind, but I try to ignore them because what’s done is done. I can’t change my present predicament.
If only I lived in some fictional dimension and had a time machine!
Actually, that would be super cool.
I’d probably go back in time and advise Elvis to avoid those fried peanut butter and banana sandwiches and prescription pills and tell Marilyn not to get involved with any government officials. I’d hold Kurt Cobain’s hand and tell him things will get better. Fuck, then there’s Jimi Hendrix, Janis Joplin, Amy Winehouse…. A bunch of people who died unnecessarily, and the world as we know it today won’t dramatically change if I happened to undead them and help them through the pain they’re going through.
All it takes is one individual who has experienced trauma and can empathize with another's agony, aiding them in overcoming their ordeal.
I tend to think of the craziestwhat-ifs, which probably stems from spending too much solitary time in the desert.
But I’m thinking of all these people who died when they shouldn’t have because I might expire under this psychopath’s hand. The likelihood of it happening sinks in, and a lump forms in my throat.
I don’t deserve to die.
