35
Nell
I’m dead.
I have to be.
Or this is some twisted nightmare, and any second now I’ll wake up in my bed, heart racing, Cameron beside me, everything intact.
But the fabric bag over my head says otherwise—thin, scratchy, barely breathable. I have to force myself to stay calm, to take shallow, measured breaths. Panic will only make it worse.
Everything replays in my mind like a cruel montage—my last words to Cameron, the way I thought I could outmanoeuvre him, the reckless belief that I was in control.
I wasn’t.
I fucked up.
I told him Ihated him… and now there might never be chance to fix it.
I can make out vague shapes through the fabric—shadows shifting, figures moving—but nothing clear enough to anchor me. Just enough to remind me I’m not alone.
They don’t speak in front of us. I’ve noticed that.
I know there are others here—girls. I can hear them sobbing, whispering prayers, pleading for someone to listen. But the moment anyone tries to speak above a whisper, there’s a sharp, sickening crack—like a whip—and then silence.
The air is thick with the stench of piss, sweat, and damp concrete. It clings to my skin, seeps into my lungs. I don’t know how many of us there are. I don’t know where we are. But the cold beneath me, the echo of wind howling through metal beams—it feels like a warehouse. Abandoned and forgotten.
Just like us.
The ropes bite into my wrists so tight, carving angry lines into my skin with every twitch. But I don’t dare move. I don’t know what’s waiting beyond this room, and I’m not naïve enough to think I’d make it more than a few steps.
I don’t even know if Darcy’s here. Probably not. It’s been too long since I last saw her face, and hope is a luxury I can’t afford anymore.
The clips Cameron once showed me—those cold warnings—now cling to my skin like death itself. Mocking me. Reminding me how foolish I was to think I could outrun this.
I try to steel myself—body, mind, everything—but it’s hard when all I want is home. And by home, I mean Cameron’s home. I miss Boomerang. I miss the quiet things; the weight of ablanket, the softness of a pillow, the sound of someone breathing beside me.
Now, all of that is gone. And what’s left is pain. Unbearable and unrelenting in its cruelty.
Sometimes I wish they’d just kill me. But I know better.
There’s something worse waiting.
Killing me would be mercy. And there’s nothing merciful about where I’m going.
“These,” a voice barks, sharp like someone in command.
Panic erupts around me. Cries, sobs, desperate pleas.
A few more are taken. Dragged into the dark. Their fate already sealed. And I sit here, trembling, waiting for my time to come.
As much as I want to believe Cameron’s out there—tearing the world apart to find me—I know better.
That’s why I never wanted to fall for him in the first place. Because hope is dangerous. Hope is a lie dressed up in comfort. And I can’t afford it.
There’s no knight in a black hoodie coming to save me. No perfectly calculated rescue. No stalker boy saviour. Hope will only rot me from the inside out. And in a place like this, hope is lethal.
Sitting here in nothing but a bra and pants, shivering against the cold concrete, left alone with nothing but my thoughts—and the endless parade of horrors my mind insists on conjuring.
