Brooke Roberts

I wish I could deactivate the part of my brain that controls my sense of smell, so I could stop being assaulted by all the nauseating odors that hit me every time I breathe. The dusty, rancid air of the warehouse mixes with the smell of sweat and dirt, and then there is the most constant of all, which reminds me of rust and lodges deep in my throat.

Maybe I feel it so strongly because my nose has been bleeding constantly for the past day. Days? I’ve lost track of time; I’ve been fed twice with a watery, cold porridge, which made my body protest, but I think I managed to digest most of it before emptying the contents of my stomach after being repeatedly shocked with a taser.

None of my captors talk to me, except for the one who seems to be in charge and is responsible for reminding me what happens if I try to escape again, as if I could forget when I have a permanent reminder in the form of my brutalized fingers.

The number of men in the warehouse constantly changes, never fewer than six, and once when I regained consciousness, I counted twelve.

At some point during the day, the sun shines precisely on me, filtered through the filthy windows, warming my skin. I always try to close my eyes and block out the reality around me, imagining myself sitting on my board, in the middle of the sea, bathed in sunlight.

I don’t know how I still manage to cry since I receive a cup of water at irregular intervals, but whenever I faint and think of my home, I wake up with tears streaming down my face. I remember Cerberus always asking me for an extra treat, how Apollo greets me when I walk through the front door, and Toothless lying down with his head on my lap. The longing for them is immense, but it’s not even a fraction of the longing I feel for my morning routine with Seth, and his smile that always reflects in his eyes, dispelling the hardness I often find there. Or how much I miss Kyle’s hugs and his endless care. Or Raffi’s playful and fun demeanor. My heart tightens every time I think that I didn’t tell him I loved him and might have missed my chance.

“No, I’m going to get out of here. They will come for me. I will survive.” My mind corrects me, and the voice that sounds inside my head is unyielding, strong, and leaves no room for alternatives. “They will come, I just need to hold on a little longer.” I cling to these words, just one more minute, just one more hour.

— Oh, what did you say? — I hadn’t noticed that my captor was nearby; he squats in front of me, and I hadn’t even realized I had spoken aloud.

“They will come for me,” I repeat, and my voice comes out firm, even surprising myself. “And you will die,” I inform him.

His laughter is humorless and gives me chills.

“Let’s see how long this hope of yours will last, bitch.” He slaps my face, not hard, not like the others, but just to remind me that I can’t retaliate. As if I needed to be reminded of my impotence. “I think you were nothing more than a warm hole for them to stick their cock in whenever they felt like it, and they’ve already replaced you.” His companions’ laughter echoes through the warehouse.

“You will die,” I repeat, putting all the hatred and contempt I feel into the words as I glare into his disgusting eyes. “And I’ll enjoy watching it!” I scream, surprising myself with the truth of my declaration.

His closed fist collides with the side of my face, and I feel my teeth clash, my neck aching from the ricochet effect, and a buzzing sounds in my ear.

They will come for me, I just don’t know if I’ll be here when they arrive.