Page 124 of Finding Noah

God only knew how long I'd been in this room, chained to this bedframe. Not eating, not drinking. My way of tracking the passing of time was the moments I'd woken up long enough to peer out the window, to see if it was day or night. How many times though, I couldn't remember, and the memories of doing so were discombobulated, to the point that I didn't know when they were real or dreams or hallucinations.

“Today is Wednesday, my friend,” Benjamin answered cheerfully, plopping himself down into his chair.

Wednesday. “I've been … here … since … Sunday,” I said slowly, struggling to make my brain work.

I lifted my bleary gaze toward the window to see that it was now nighttime.

Four whole days.

Four days of lying here. Being beaten until I lost consciousness. Having my clothes torn from my body and left in tattered scraps. Suffering through the torment and abuse of being wrenched and rolled over against the binds holding me in place, used and violated. Soiling myself and lying in it until it dried and crusted.

Again and again.

Over and over.

God, I wished I could move my arms. I wished I had something to write with. I wished I could mark the days onto the wall somehow. I wished I could take that pen or pencil and stab it straight through Benjamin’s eye, deep into his brain, until he ceased to breathe, before I made my great escape, like you saw in movies or TV shows.

But this was real life. And in real life, people were just that—people. And they grew weak and weary, and there was only so much abuse they could take before they started to wonder if they were no longer a person at all.

“Yep,” Benjamin answered with a nod. “Sunday.”

“You seem proud,” I muttered in barely a whisper.

My mouth was dry and cottony, my lips cracked and bleeding. I didn't dare complain about it though. The last time I had asked for something to drink, Benjamin had offered to piss in my mouth.

I wondered how long it'd take for me to take him up on it, and given how desperate I felt now, I doubted it'd be long.

“You know what? I actually am,” he replied. “I haven't done much in my life, you know? The first sixteen, seventeen years were … well, they kinda sucked, right? I was a punching bag, a hole to fuck … well, you know how that goes,” he said flippantly, leaning back in the chair and crossing his arms tightly over his chest. “Then I kinda fumbled my way through. Slept on some couches. Sucked guys off for drugs or food or whatever. Nothin' I was proud of, you know, but I had to do what I had to do to get by, right?”

He was talking like he would to a friend, and I rolled my head against the dirty, bloody mattress to offer my full attention. There wasn't anything else to do but listen, and the faintest, almost-undetectable shred of hope shone through the darkness, saying, Maybe, maybe, maybe, maybe I can coax this sick fucking asshole to let me go.

Or at least to give me a drink of fucking water.

“My uncle gave me a job though. I make good money, decent. Got myself a woman. A daughter.” He laughed, shaking his head. “Can you believe that? I have a wife and a daughter back home, and here I am, spending my time with you.”

“She doesn't wonder where you are?” I whispered, thinking about Meg.

Oh God, Meg.

If I had any tears left to cry, I would've cried then.

Is she looking for me? Would she even know where to start?

They would've found my car by now, I assumed. But would they know where to go from there? I raised my eyes to the window, to the moon, and wondered if it alone could guide her to wherever the fuck I was. Had Benjamin left a trail to follow? He didn’t seem like the sharpest tool in the shed, and I had to hope he’d been stupid enough to drop some crumbs along the way.

Benjamin shrugged. “Nah, man. I'm out all night anyway. She knows I work. Knows better than to ask any questions too. Don't ask, don't tell, right? She knows the rules.”

The rules.

It didn't surprise me that he'd keep a tight leash on a woman, treat her like a possession and less like a partner.

But still, I grabbed ahold of that bit of offered information and asked with a furrowed brow, “What do you do?”

He twisted his lips and narrowed his eyes. “I dunno if I should tell you, bein’ a cop and all,” he said with skepticism, until he laughed, slapping his thigh. “Ah, what the hell? Who the fuck you gonna tell?”

I mustered a gruff chuckle. “I was gonna say, you're just gonna kill me anyway. Might as well tell me all your deepest, darkest secrets. Make this shithole your confessional.”

He hummed contemplatively before allowing a grin to spread across his face. “Actually”—Benjamin laughed again—“I think you'd be it, my friend. My deepest, darkest, dirtiest secret.”