Two months. Two miserable months I’ve been stuck in this damn cage.
Gone are the days when I stayed up retracing my steps, trying to figure out how the hell I ended up here because it grew pointless after a while.
I had tried to find where I missed a signal that would have blared flashing red lights that this was coming, but I came up empty every time.
My mind then wandered to what my fate would be like inside this gilded cage.
Every day is the same.
A masked man comes, tosses a bottle of water at my face, along with a peanut butter sandwich. He then proceeds to spew words that make me believe a lobotomy would be less painful.
And if I’m lucky, after hours of mental torture, he delivers a swift kick to my head, allowing me to pass out instead of staying up for days, dwelling on the fact that this is my new future.
I have tried to predict his patterns in hopes I could tune him out, but do you know what they say about trying to predict the future?
Don’t.
Don’t try to guess. Don’t try to force an outcome. Don’t make an effort to change the path that you are destined to be on.
Why?
Because life, fate, and the universe will come in and make a mockery of you by changing the entire game.
Or, in my case, my masked nemesis will change the topic from my daughter that I let slip through my hands to Braveheart and the family that falls under my protection.
Boone, Tucker, Zoro, Indy, Reagan, Taylor, or any of the loyal members of Braveheart.
Raynie seems to be the psycho’s favorite topic, but oddly, Boone and Taylor are close behind.
I have no idea why or how this dickhead knows the inner workings of the club that I fought Landon Hayes tooth and nail on to build as strong as it is.
I wish I had the energy to dig and read between the lines, but I don’t.
Whoever this is, they are very calculated with their words and know exactly what to say to throw me off if I even try to question anything.
As if I conjured the devil himself, footsteps sound on the wood stairs and a man dressed in all black head to toe, the only color coming from the white mask decorated with a painted crimson smile, appears in front of the cage.
“Hello Aries. Sleep well?” His robotic voice filters through the cell and I don’t give him the satisfaction of a response and stare down at the ground.
The sound of metal scraping against concrete rings in my ears and I don’t bother looking up even when his shoes come into view.
“Aww. Big man scared today?”
I grunt and keep my eyes on the ground.
I watch as his foot lifts in slow motion and comes up to my chin at full force, my head flying backward and smacking against the concrete wall.
It feels as if he’s knocked all the air out of me, and before I can recover, his gloved hand grips my face, forcing me to look at his masked face.
“When I speak, you fucking look at me, you sorry sack of shit!”
The man’s rancid breath filters through the mouth of the mask and bile rises in my throat.
“Maybe I would if you used a breath mint.”
I don’t even try to brace myself for the kick to my ribs as the words leave my mouth. And because I’m a sadistic piece of shit that knows I’m never leaving this hellhole, I smile up at him through the coughing and say, “Touchy subject? Sorry. I’ll be sure to do it again later.”
He lets out an exaggerated sigh and punches me in the bicep before dragging a stool over, his hands bracing on his knees.
