Page 63 of Saviour
I drink and drink and drink until my mind blacks out.
There’s also no other news on King. Emerson hasn’t been back and hasn’t heard Kennedy Harlow talk about the prison either. I tried to get the location out of Emerson, but he can’t give me an address. He said it’s somewhere entirely remote and sitting in the back of Kennedy’s car didn’t make it easy for him to memorise where they were going without being obvious.
Everyone is just gone and everything is just blank.
Carlo was right for once.
I’m fucking alone. Once again.
But through the drinking and self-sabotage, I won’t give up. Not on King and not on Rori.
I’ll find them until it kills me. And maybe then, we’ll be reunited.
Idon’t know how long it’s been since I was taken. My hearing is the first sense that comes back to me. I can hear an incessant drip of water onto what I can only assume is a metal pipe of some sort because the repetitive drip echoes in the space I’m in. And the only other sound my ears train themselves on is my breathing. Slow and steady, for now.
Next is my touch. I recognise my body is cold and damp, bare skin against what feels like concrete. I feel cold all over and when I run my hands over my arms and legs, I realise I’m completely naked and goosebumps coat my skin.
I trail my fingers gently over the floor and feel the cracks and grazes of concrete, the floor cold and damp like I suspected.
I can’t smell anything, other than maybe myself. I have no idea how long I’ve been here.
The taste in my mouth is rotten and stale. My throat burns when I try to swallow what saliva I have resting on my tongue. It’s not much and I smack my lips together, desperate for a glass of water or something to moisten my throat.
And lastly, I can’t see anything. The blindfold around my eyes is a dead giveaway, but as I tenderly pull it down my face, there’s still nothing to see but a black void.
I squint and blink a few times, hoping my eyes just need to adjust to the darkness. But nothing.
It’s a black empty pit, with nothing in it but me, the damp floor and the drip drip drip of water onto that fucking drain pipe.
I curl up tighter and toy back and forth in my mind on whether to announce I’m awake or alert someone that I’m here. But decide against it.
I know who took me and I know I’m not safe, so I just curl up tighter and let the damp floor soak into my skin.
What I think is a few days pass and nothing happens. I still see nothing. I still hear nothing but that irritating drip. I taste nothing. I start to smell worse and the dampness starts to rot a horrible smell right into my nose.
I found the strength to crawl around the room, feeling my way along the walls. But I crawled in one small square and felt nothing but more damp walls, not even a door handle. I tried to count how many steps it took to get from one corner to the next, but my legs wouldn’t carry me long.
I was stuck in a dark box with no end in sight into how I’d get out.
And amongst all of the physical torture I’m made to endure, I can’t also stop torturing my mind. Thinking of Dax and what could’ve happened to him in my absence.
* * *
I haveno idea how many days it’s been when a door on one of the opposite three walls opens, blinding light illuminating myself and the box room.
I squeeze my eyes tight, rubbing at them to try and stop seeing spots the sudden light exposure caused.
I hear more now. The door slamming against the wall, the hum from the light bulb coming from outside, the heavy footsteps of boots coming closer to me. The drip on the pipe is quieter now.
I curl up tighter, trying to be as small as possible.
I smell food, something warm and tomatoey. My stomach churns at the scent and I grip it in pain.
A spoon is forced to my lips and I open up willingly, having no idea what it is, nor caring, when the tomato soup glides down my throat. I relish the taste and open my mouth for another spoonful.
I feel strong hands under my arms, lifting me up to a sitting position. They’re rough and calloused, a harsh grip pinching my skin. But then I feel the cold spoon on my bottom lip again and the hot soup on my tongue and I don’t care.
And then moving my hands from my eyes, I open them inch by slow inch, blinking into the light until I can see who is in front of me and even though I expected it, I still think I preferred the dark.
