Page 8 of Bound By Thorns
Before long, the sun rose and I headed to shower for the day. The fresh bruises that had started forming near my inner thighs and abdomen had started to hurt a little with every step, but it was better than having tic tac toe played on my back with a knife, I reckoned.
My heart hurt for Logan. He was suffering. Garret was harder on him than anyone else. Naturally, Logan had more information to dispense than all the prisoners combined.
After my shower, I dressed up in a plain white T-shirt and a pair of gray shorts. It was my staple for the day. I only wore a dress or something appealing when Garret was around in the evenings.
I went downstairs to the secondary kitchen and sat at the counter watching Martha cook breakfast.
“You’re early again.” She said.
I scoffed, “Just trying to get an early day once in a while, Mar.”
Her shaky hands were busy whisking a large bowl of something. I knew she had to prepare food for more than two dozen workers here. The residents–or prisoners, how everyone would call them–were fed canned food. I wondered whether Logan missed the regular awful food versus revolting food here.
“How was today? Did you vomit agai–”
“Martha…” I cut her off, my eyes darting everywhere in the empty hall.
“I’m just concerned.” Her eyes were downcast as she continued. “Would you tell him this time?”
Martha was an old lady who cooked for the staff. Garret had his own private chef. But Martha had quickly become a confidant after my early days here. She also helped me with my first pregnancy and abortion procedure. She knew too well that it was happening again.
“I’m fine,” I said curtly.
“It will only hurt more if you keep waiting,” she raised her brow.
I nodded absentmindedly and grabbed a cup of coffee she slid towards me.
Then she took her usual gossip stance, leaning over the counter towards me.
“How is that man? 424? Is he a fool for you yet, like everyone else here?” She whispered with glee.
I rolled my eyes and chuckled, “Keep your head out of it, Mar. He hates me.”
She shook her head pouting, “No one can hate you, Kaylan. I think even Garret loves you a little.”
I swallowed hard.
My oblivious little Martha. I was too scared to tell her about Garret’s nightly routine. She liked to live in a fantasy world, thinking she was helping serve a rich family, instead of a group of sick men.
Is it time to tell her about her boss’s extracurricular activities?
“I’ll go rest for a bit before they start with the day.”
I snagged my cup and left. I didn’t have the energy or even the physical strength to talk to anybody, let alone explain to this seventy-year-old woman that her life is a lie.
Walking around, I halted near the door that took us to the basement. Basement was a rather civilized term for what it was.
Who am I kidding? It’s a fucking dungeon.
That’s where approximately 112 prisoners resided. One of them was Logan. I eyed the locked door, the key to which was with Tyka and Garret. It was usually unlocked between the hours of 8 AM to 8 PM like it was office hours for them to torture ex-military.
Another hour and I could go and talk to 241. She was a former CIA, in her forties. Her real name was Ingrid ‘Knifer’ Lowel. But she had been 241 for three years now, and with all theattentionshe had gotten, she forgot her name. I suspect retrograde amnesia, but it could be a mental health issue as well.
The hour went by fast. I finished my coffee on my stroll, and had breakfast brought up to my room by Martha a few minutes later. A quick walk later, I was heading down two stories to reach the fucking dungeon. Thankfully, I didn’t need to pass Logan’s cell to reach Ingrid. I wouldn’t do it otherwise.
When I reached her cell, it was empty. I frowned with confusion but surely a second later dread filled my eyes.
No!
