As he slams the door, I stare at it blankly, holding the towel to my stomach to staunch the bleeding. The pain is worse than the needlework from any intricate tattoo, and more intense than any blunt-edged knife dipped in fire and pressed to unmarred flesh. But I don’t cry anymore, despite the flames of pain licking at my torso. I’m just relieved that I’m alone, and untied, and for the moment, alive.
It makes me think of the last thing he said before he slammed the door and left me in here.
If you fucking die on me, I’ll drag you out of hell myself.
I believe him.
Mostly, though, I’m glad that my comment had the desired effect – get him so angry he forgot what he was here for. Getting the truth from me. My mind already feels a lot clearer than it did, and relief soothes me like a balm. He didn’t ask me about Elliot. He didn’t ask me about Kayla. He didn’t ask me about Jase.
I’d give every last scrap of my battered flesh to keep them safe. He can cut it all away so there’s nothing left but blood and bone, and I’ll die happy if it means they all survive Dornan Ross.
A few hours later, I can tell night is approaching. The air around me has turned from thick and muggy to slightly chilly, making me shiver violently, still damp with my own blood. I have to peel the blood-soaked towel from my torso to get it away from my skin, and then when I look, I wish I hadn’t. My entire left side is a mess of blood and bits of torn flesh. Hacked is about the only word that could accurately describe what he’s done to me. He’s effectively excised the top layers of my skin so that no trace of ink remains.
It looks horrific. It hurts more the longer I stare at it, wondering how it will ever heal with no flesh to knit back together, but then I remember that it doesn’t need to heal, because I’ll be dead soon.
At some point I must nod off, because when I come to, it’s to a tray of food sliding along the floor toward me, and to the door slamming shut quickly behind it.
A chance to escape, and I was too fucking slow to even open my eyes.
Too fucking slow to even try. I’m pathetic.
I survey the food tray with interest; I’m suddenly reminded of the grueling flight I took to Thailand to have my surgery. I cringe inwardly as I realize that was mere months ago, and now I’m sitting in a death chamber, waiting for the Reaper to take me.
The same feeling of claustrophobia I experienced on that long flight is kind of like what I’m going through now. One shitty meal delivered at some point during the long hours. I’m uncomfortable, and I’m not in control, and I just want to get off this ride.
I crawl over to the metal tray and survey today’s contents. A sandwich made with dry bread and deli meat, a small red apple, and a glass of water used as a makeshift vase, holding a bunch of the most potently sweet-smelling flowers I’ve ever encountered. I don’t touch the flowers, despite how pretty they are with their long, thin green stalks and sprays of tiny, white bell-shaped blossoms hanging down. I swallow thickly as I wonder what kind of message Dornan is trying to send by including a deliberate gesture reserved for lovers and mourners.
I grab hold of the sandwich and disassemble it as best I can. Salami and cheese, cut in half, two seemingly innocent triangles on a plastic plate. I’m so hungry, and yet every time they bring me food, I’m terrified. Eating something Dornan has served me always makes me nervous with every bite, convinced I’ll bite into a human ear or a piece of glass or poison. So far I’ve been fine, but I still don’t trust.
Thorough inspection done, I grab one of the triangles and devour it. At first I tried to eat slowly, but I can’t. I’m starving, and this one meal a day is barely sustaining me. Plus, I’m afraid if I take too long to eat it, someone might come in and take it off me before I’ve finished.
As soon as the food hits my stomach, a wave of nausea shakes me. I hurry to the bucket in the corner of the room and retch painfully, vomiting up everything I’ve just scarfed down.
The food tastes strangely metallic on the way back up. Desperation and hunger rises with the last heave of food and I spit the taste away from my mouth as fresh tears prick at my eyes.
Poison. He’s fucking poisoning my food.
I’m starving, and I look upon the other half of the sandwich with both desperation and disdain. I want to eat it. I want to devour it. I’m ravenous and I need something to fill my hollow stomach. But not something that’s going to make me vomit.
I sit on the floor, huddled against the wall opposite the door. Watching. Waiting. Glancing at the half sandwich. The seemingly innocuous apple that’s probably full of maggots. The glass of water that has the stems of a highly poisonous flower immersed within. He’s fucking poisoning me.