Brooke Roberts

The first thing I notice when I regain consciousness, still with my eyes closed, is the pain. I’m almost sure it’s what woke me up. My neck hurts, I’m in an uncomfortable position, and when I try to turn my shoulders to relieve the tension, I almost scream as I feel my wrists pulling.

Then the memory of the parking lot comes back, and I recall the syringe and the smile. Along with it comes the panic: I don’t know where I am, who these people are, or what they want. My breathing speeds up and my heart pounds in my chest. My other senses sharpen, and the musty smell churns my stomach.

Both my wrists and ankles are tied to the chair. I’m afraid to open my eyes, to see the reality and confirm that this isn’t a nightmare. But the sound of a metal door slamming echoes through the space, and by reflex, or instinct, I look for its source.

The sight that meets me is even worse than I had imagined. I’m in a huge warehouse like in the movies, even the hanging lights are the same, but instead of two captors, I count six. All the size of a small cupboard and with scars; I identify the weapons on their belts and instinctively know they aren’t there for decoration.

I feel a cold drop of sweat, which has little to do with the stuffy air of the place and much to do with the fear that fills me, trickling down my spine. My mouth is dry and it’s hard to swallow even my saliva. Once again, I question their intentions; one thing is clear: they don’t want to kill me, or they would have done it already. I mean, at least not yet.

For a moment, a feeling of gratitude washes over me, and I almost cry with the comforting thought that Liv isn’t with me. I don’t know what my captors would have done if she were here now, if she would be occupying a chair next to me or, worse, not occupying any space at all.

I need to find a way to survive. I don’t know how long I was unconscious, but Seth has certainly noticed I didn’t show up for our session. If he calls Olivia, he’ll find out we went out together. Then they’ll search for me and take me home.

Home.

I can almost feel the grass under my feet and hear the dogs barking in the garden. It’s not hard to imagine that any moment now, one of the guys will call me in to do something together, or even better, join me. The memory is so strong that the longing feels like a punch, and a sob escapes my lips, drawing the attention of everyone around me.

“Finally,” one of them says, sitting on a table a few meters away from me, clapping his hands together. “I was starting to worry that you’d never wake up.”

He jumps off the table and walks toward me. He grabs a strand of my hair, twisting it between his fingers.

“You’re quite pretty for a little slut.”

I don’t respond to his insult, just continue to stare at him, taking in his features: his large nose full of pimples, the mustache that made him look like the cartoon character Leôncio. A terrifying thought crosses my mind: “In the movies, when the victim sees their faces, it’s because they have no intention of letting them live.” It wasn’t as if I hadn’t considered this possibility, but being confronted with it makes my stomach churn.

“Is she deaf?” the man asks his colleagues, who shake their heads. “It’s rude not to respond to people, you know, little slut?”

I don’t even see where the slap comes from, but I feel his hand smacking the right side of my face. My cheek burns and my eyes well up with tears, but I blink quickly to prevent them from falling and continue to stare at him, hoping to convey a defiant expression.

“Oh, I’m going to have fun with you,” he says, throwing his jacket behind him.

This time, I’m prepared for his slap, so it seems to hurt less.

“I’m still going to make you talk, even if it’s screaming, slut.” His filthy hand grabs a handful of my hair, twisting it until my scalp hurts, and pulls my head further up. My wrists protest as they are stretched. He releases my hair abruptly to slide a finger across my face, which I turn away from, removing it from his reach. “Very well, at least a reaction. You know, it’s no fun playing alone; you have to participate.”

He points at me and smiles, my blood turns to ice in my veins. I could never forget that smile. He’s the one who stuck the needle in my neck; he’s the one I ran towards.

“You and I are going to spend some time together, getting to know each other better,” he says, holding my chin and forcing me to look at him again. “And having fun in the meantime. What do you think?”

When I don’t respond, he moves away again, returning to his companions. I try to figure out why I’m here, think about all the orders, about how the guys have been worried. Great, if I get out of here, there’ll be no convincing them that I don’t need a bodyguard, I think bitterly, but if I’m honest, I’d give anything to be in the living room of our house discussing this with the three of them.

I have no idea how much time has passed; it could be half an hour or three hours. I’m always being watched, but none of them have spoken to me since the first interaction. I try to listen to their conversations, but they’ve kept me far enough away to only hear indistinguishable murmurs.

Watching them is extremely distressing, while also being boring. The anxiety that fills me with every sudden movement keeps me alert. So when my captor returns near me, I brace myself for whatever it is.

“Well, we don’t want you to die, so we brought water.” He gestures to the cup I hadn’t even noticed in his hand. The mere mention of water reminds me of how thirsty I am. My lips are sticking together from dehydration, but drinking means I’ll need to use the bathroom.

An idea occurs to me, and it’s crazy— I must be completely insane just to consider it, but it’s a chance. If I’m quick enough, I might be able to escape.

When the kidnapper who seems to be the leader, as he’s the only one who approaches me, tips the cup against my lips, I drink. The taste is of stale water, but it still slides down my sore throat refreshingly. Once I finish, he goes back to join the others.

A few minutes later, a piercing cellphone ring echoes through the space. The one I assume to be the leader grabs the phone and exits the warehouse through a metal door.

“Please,” I begin after a while, my voice coming out hoarse and scraping my throat. I try again. “I need to use the bathroom.”

This catches the attention of two of my guards, who come closer and seem to debate what to do.

“Please,” I implore again.

The two of them exchange looks, and one shrugs at the other. I don’t know why they don’t speak and keep me informed of their decisions. My heart races as one of them points a gun at my head, and at that moment, the other approaches, pulling a knife from his pocket and cutting the restraints.

Still under the threat of the gun, they finally lead me away.

“Follow me.”

Standing up brings a new wave of pain. My whole body aches from being in the same position on the extremely uncomfortable chair for so long. I try to stretch my neck and roll my shoulders to ease some of the tension. What I wouldn’t give to attend one of those yoga classes Liv keeps inviting me to.

I wasn’t naïve enough to think they would leave me truly alone, but at least they moved me away from the group. Unfortunately, I was given no privacy as they pointed out a filthy toilet in one corner of the warehouse.

The one holding the gun doesn’t take his eyes off me. I pretend to unbutton my pants. I bow my head as if embarrassed, hoping they believe I’m helpless. I notice when he lowers his guard, just a little, but enough to give me a few more seconds before I can aim and strike. Then I strike, throwing my whole body and using the momentum of the movement to hit him in the middle of the stomach. He stumbles back a few steps, and I don’t waste time looking back as I run toward the metal door a few meters away.

I’m less than two steps from reaching it when I feel my hair being yanked violently back toward the chair. I kick and thrash, trying to hit whoever it is.

“Who was the idiot who let her go?” the cold, repugnant voice of my captor bellows.

I’m thrown to the ground. The impact with the concrete makes the side of my body throb and steals the air from my lungs. I don’t have time to recover before feeling a boot collide with my stomach. I curl up, clutching it as a scream gets trapped in my throat.

I lift my eyes in time to see the second kick coming toward me. I’m thrown backward by the impact, and my head hits something. My vision blurs, and I begin to cough up something wet. Looking down, I see blood.

“I thought you understood our agreement,” he says with mockery. “You behave, and we don’t hurt you.”

The third kick lands, making me scream again as I hear a sound very much like bones breaking. Did I break a rib?

When it seems like your attack is about to give me a reprieve, I gather all my strength to lift my torso off the ground. One of my shoulders weakens, but after inhaling as deeply as the stabbing pain in my side allows, I manage to keep my head high.

I spit blood at the feet of my captors, trying to get up and fight, but he hits me once more, plunging me back into blessed darkness.

***