The respite he gives me is short-lived.
With a groan, I turn my head to the side and unglue my tongue from my palate, swiping it hesitantly across cracked, bitter lips. They instantly feel better, but moving my head was a mistake.
I find, too late, that the pounding sounds I thought were meant to awaken me are entirely constructs of my own mind. Now they throb in conjunction with the pain I've unwittingly roused.
I wish, for a moment, that I had not woken up.
Don't you dare give in, Lu
.
You need to fight.
I take a moment to remind myself of all the things in life that I will lose forever, if I allow myself to lose to him now.
You can't put your mother through losing someone again.
The suggestion that I'd ever hurt her, even incidentally, is enough to push me to open my eyes and force myself to contemplate my surroundings.
Deep shadows pervade the room around me. I don't dare move my head to look up, but the uneven visibility means there must be recessed lights above. Infrequent and dim, they're enough for me to see that four unexceptional walls surround me.
I had expected darkness, but the disappointment of my expectations is a gift. If I can see, I can plan.
I can fight.
Can I win?
That is the million-dollar question.
Losing to him earlier was peaceful, in a way; I had given it my best shot, and when that wasn't enough he granted me the oblivion of a drugged unconsciousness.
But looking at the walls that confine me now forces me to accept the fact that the most exhausting struggle of my life--a one-sided battle on that wooden hallway floor, halfway between an unconscious friend and an unreachable bastion of safety, beneath the body of a man whose indomitable strength is matched only by his ruthless dedication to violence (
depressing details much, Lu?)
--was not the climax of this fucked-up trial for whatever sins I've inadvertently committed.
It was only the beginning.
A single, hot tear slides down the curve of my cheek and I make no effort to wipe it away. More follow, a stream of regret melding into the fabric beneath my head.
Fabric?
For the first time I realize that I am on something soft, flexible, bed-like.
Curious, I push my hand downwards and am rewarded with the springy feeling that is inherent to a mattress.
It IS a bed.
Ignoring the pain in my neck, I gingerly push my cheek against the semi-wet fabric below it.
And a pillow?
I want to laugh at the ridiculousness of it, but his gesture suggests there's a slight chance that my comfort is important. Derisiveness seems like a petty reaction to what could be a tool for getting out of here--if he cares about me at all, maybe I can exploit that to my advantage.
The chance to find out comes too soon.
If I had paid better attention to my surroundings instead of my mental state, I might have noticed that there's a door in the wall directly across from my bed.
I notice it now, when it opens and he walks through.
"You're awake." He closes the door behind him, then turns to face the bed. His face is steeped in shadow.
It seems he has a talent for stating the obvious.
Do I respond? Or stay silent?
I push an arm down into the mattress, a messy attempt to sit up before making my decision.
Don't want him to think of all the things he could do to you on the bed
.
He could do those things anywhere, I tell myself in aggravation.
Yes, but do you want him to?
There's a trite response on the tip of my tongue but it's cut short by a harsh tug on my ankle as I drop it to the floor.
I look down. A metal chain is neatly threaded through the tracking bracelet I tried so hard to get rid of. It trails off into the darkness of the room.
Oh.
My belief that he might have a soft spot for my comfort is immediately set on fire and discarded.
I'm so screwed.
"Why?" The word comes, unbidden, to my lips.
It means so many thing: Why am I here? Why am I chained? Why kidnap me?
Why me.
He takes a step forward, and I instinctively flinch.
But I don't look away. I'm too invested in getting an answer to my question.
