44.5
When I regain consciousness, I’m back in the chair, and my wrists protest as I try to move them. My captor approaches and squats in front of me.
"Great, you’re awake. Now you’re going to learn what happens when you don’t behave." He walks back to the table in the center of the warehouse and returns with a rolled-up cloth.
"You," he points to one of his associates. "Bring that chair over here," he orders.
The man does as instructed, placing the metal chair directly in front of me. Moments later, it is occupied by my captor.
"You need to understand that you have nowhere to go. No one is coming for you, bitch," he says, tilting his head to the side.
"You’re wrong," I murmur, and he laughs.
"We’ll see," my captor suggests. And with a terrifying calm, he unrolls the cloth over his lap. My breathing speeds up as I stare at the long pins and struggle against the restraints, feeling my skin split, but the pain is distant compared to the dread of what he intends to do with the pins.
"That’s right, I like it when they fight," he says, his tone oily, seeming to cling to my skin. I just want to scrub it away until nothing remains; he blinks as if he knows.
He grabs my hand and stretches my fingers.
"Your skin is so soft, I understand why they keep you around," he says, confirming my suspicions that he knows Kyle and the others. His suggestive tone and words cause a renewed wave of fear to spread through me.
Before I can grasp his intent, he takes my index finger and pushes one of the long pins under my nail. The scream that escapes my throat is animalistic and adds a new sting where I was previously hurt; the pain radiates from my finger throughout my body, and tears stream down my face. I keep staring at my finger and can see the silver tip beneath the base of my nail, watching as blood drips onto my pants just below the pool already formed from my restrained wrists.
When my torturer holds my middle finger, I start to tremble. I want to beg for him to stop, but I know that would only please him. I close my eyes, thinking it might help, but I was sorely mistaken. The second time is even worse; the pain is excruciating, and I feel bile rising in my throat as I swallow the urge to vomit. Tears fall even harder as my captor brings his face closer to mine. I try to push my body away and create distance, but I have nowhere to go.
For a moment, I fear he will kiss me, but what he does is almost as horrifying—he licks my cheek.
"Has that been enough to learn your lesson?" he asks as he returns to his seat, picking up the next pin. This time, his movements are deliberate, even slow, heightening the tension. I try to close my hand, but I have no strength left.
By the fourth pin, I lose control of my bladder and wet my pants. By the seventh, my screams turn into pleas, my crying seems endless. I can't feel my fingers on my right hand, and my entire body shakes with spasms of pain radiating from all directions.
"Please, stop, please," I whimper as my torturer holds the next target. "No, no, no," I scream, and through my tears, I see the glimmer of excitement in his eyes.
As the sharp, penetrating pain hits me, everything turns black, and I feel like smiling. Reality seems distant, and I feel light, floating as I am once again enveloped by the comforting darkness.
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