and am not surprised to hear clinking up above my head. Handcuffs. Fucking handcuffs. The pain makes me gasp which reminds me, a little belatedly that I'm not gagged. I can move my fucking tongue for the first time in days.
“Show me your fucking face, asshole!” I scream. Or I try to. My throat is dry and scratchy, and the best I can get out is a harsh whisper. I try again. “You pussy motherfucker, come and untie me, show me what you've got, bitch.” Just a gasping croak.
I start to struggle again, flailing my body around like I'm having a seizure, fighting with every last ounce of strength I have inside to either get a reaction from my captor or find a weak spot in all of this shit. There has to be a way out. There just has to be. Where the fuck are you, Turner? I think and then realize how foolish I've been. Now, here, with the drugs fading from my system, I realize that Turner might not even be looking for me. I never even considered that before. Don't know when I became such a bleeding heart romantic. Even if Turner felt all the things he spouted out that night in Denver, that doesn't mean he's going to drop everything and go searching for me. What a crock of crap.
So I kick harder and I keep screaming, willing with each breath for something to happen. Nothing does for a long while, and my voice, instead of getting stronger, gets weaker with each shout, with each whisper of gasping breath.
Fuck. Fuck. And super fuck.
I lay there and stare at the ceiling. It's stained, just riddled with water spots and grease. Based on the musty smell and stench of mildew, it's pretty obvious from scent alone that whoever has me now is residing in a lot less swanky of a place than my previous captors. I adjust myself with a sigh, trying to hold back tears when white hot pain sears my hands and feet. And then I hear a noise. A squeak. It's small, barely noticeable. I yank on my right wrist. Nothing. My left. Aha. I pull harder.
I can hear metal sliding on metal followed by an almost imperceptible shriek. Is it a loose bolt? An old part ready snap? I don't know, but it's worth a try. I pull on my wrist so hard that it feels like the bone is about to break in half, sucking in my breath and biting back a scream that's threatening to tear out my throat.
Nothing fucking happens.
I collapse back into the bed with a sob and wonder if this'll be the last place I see. If this room will be my nightmare and my tomb. What will I experience here? All the things I fought to escape when I killed my foster parents? Is this the universe's vengeance on me for taking their lives?
“ When the moon hangs low and night is warm, I find my way to you, ” I whisper as my eyes fill with tears I won't shed. If this is my last moment alone, the last time I'll ever see the world this way, I want to sing. I always played the guitar, it's like a part of my fucking body, an extension of myself, but singing is … it's an extension of my soul. I wish I'd done it more, that I hadn't let Hayden monopolize the lead. “ If life is a question of courage, I've failed, so I hope you'll still hold me. Oh God, please hold me. If you turn me down, I've got nowhere else to go. ” I sniffle hard and fight back the wave of crushing depression. “ If you'll pick me back up, I promise I'll stand. I'll find my feet and fight back, nobody will bother me again. Those sticks and stones won't touch my bones, and words will be only weapons I can wield. ”
The door creaks, but I don't stop singing. Whoever it is that's fucking with me, I want them to know that I'm a person with feelings, that I'm here, that I matter. I'm not going to be some faceless fuck puppet who screams for their pleasure. I will bend, but I refuse to fucking break.
“ I'll shed blood if I have to. I'll draw them out while I draw you in. I'll lose them while I find you. Pick me back up, and I promise I'll stand. I promise, swear it, know it, love it, believe it. ”
The door opens in and I crane my
“Show me your fucking face, asshole!” I scream. Or I try to. My throat is dry and scratchy, and the best I can get out is a harsh whisper. I try again. “You pussy motherfucker, come and untie me, show me what you've got, bitch.” Just a gasping croak.
I start to struggle again, flailing my body around like I'm having a seizure, fighting with every last ounce of strength I have inside to either get a reaction from my captor or find a weak spot in all of this shit. There has to be a way out. There just has to be. Where the fuck are you, Turner? I think and then realize how foolish I've been. Now, here, with the drugs fading from my system, I realize that Turner might not even be looking for me. I never even considered that before. Don't know when I became such a bleeding heart romantic. Even if Turner felt all the things he spouted out that night in Denver, that doesn't mean he's going to drop everything and go searching for me. What a crock of crap.
So I kick harder and I keep screaming, willing with each breath for something to happen. Nothing does for a long while, and my voice, instead of getting stronger, gets weaker with each shout, with each whisper of gasping breath.
Fuck. Fuck. And super fuck.
I lay there and stare at the ceiling. It's stained, just riddled with water spots and grease. Based on the musty smell and stench of mildew, it's pretty obvious from scent alone that whoever has me now is residing in a lot less swanky of a place than my previous captors. I adjust myself with a sigh, trying to hold back tears when white hot pain sears my hands and feet. And then I hear a noise. A squeak. It's small, barely noticeable. I yank on my right wrist. Nothing. My left. Aha. I pull harder.
I can hear metal sliding on metal followed by an almost imperceptible shriek. Is it a loose bolt? An old part ready snap? I don't know, but it's worth a try. I pull on my wrist so hard that it feels like the bone is about to break in half, sucking in my breath and biting back a scream that's threatening to tear out my throat.
Nothing fucking happens.
I collapse back into the bed with a sob and wonder if this'll be the last place I see. If this room will be my nightmare and my tomb. What will I experience here? All the things I fought to escape when I killed my foster parents? Is this the universe's vengeance on me for taking their lives?
“ When the moon hangs low and night is warm, I find my way to you, ” I whisper as my eyes fill with tears I won't shed. If this is my last moment alone, the last time I'll ever see the world this way, I want to sing. I always played the guitar, it's like a part of my fucking body, an extension of myself, but singing is … it's an extension of my soul. I wish I'd done it more, that I hadn't let Hayden monopolize the lead. “ If life is a question of courage, I've failed, so I hope you'll still hold me. Oh God, please hold me. If you turn me down, I've got nowhere else to go. ” I sniffle hard and fight back the wave of crushing depression. “ If you'll pick me back up, I promise I'll stand. I'll find my feet and fight back, nobody will bother me again. Those sticks and stones won't touch my bones, and words will be only weapons I can wield. ”
The door creaks, but I don't stop singing. Whoever it is that's fucking with me, I want them to know that I'm a person with feelings, that I'm here, that I matter. I'm not going to be some faceless fuck puppet who screams for their pleasure. I will bend, but I refuse to fucking break.
“ I'll shed blood if I have to. I'll draw them out while I draw you in. I'll lose them while I find you. Pick me back up, and I promise I'll stand. I promise, swear it, know it, love it, believe it. ”
The door opens in and I crane my
Similar Books
