Page 15 of Killing Emma

“No thank you,” I croak, my throat and chest aching.

“You sure?”

I purse my lips. Obviously, challenging him is going to get me tortured. “Can I please use the bathroom?”

“What?” He sounds surprised.

“Can I please use the bathroom?” I repeat myself, pulling against the binding that hold my wrists behind me. I keep my eyes on his feet, shivering more violently than before.

“Go ahead,” he laughs, his tone dark and cruel as he looms above me. “No one is stopping you.”

I cringe, feeling my bladder spasm. “Please don’t make me do it like that.”

“Ah, so you’re a lady now?”

I shake my head, suddenly tired of the back and forth. My emotions are fried, and I still hate myself for what I let the man do to me. I might’ve almost gotten away because of it, but I didn’t. My stomach churns. My throat hurts. My feet ache—and I need to pee.

He stands there in silence for so long that I think he’s going to leave, but instead he finally lets out a heavy breath. He disappears from my sight, his footsteps light as he walks around behind me. I tense, and then feel the warmth of his touch on my wrists. My thighs clench, and then I feel even sicker.

I should be repulsed.

“Shit,” he grimaces, working whatever is binding me off my wrists.

I whimper, not realizing my fingers on my left hand were numb until the pins and needles begin. I bring them to my lap, frantically stroking the deep purple indents wrapping around my pale wrists. My shoulders cramp from the change of position, but I ignore the sensation.

“They were too tight,” the masked man says from behind me. His voice is flat, unemotional, but the words themselves cause me pause. Why the fuck would he even care?

He doesn’t.

I rub my eyes and push the hair from my face, ignoring how tangled it is. I don’t care. I’m free. My gaze shifts to the stairwell, but I know that I’m not that free. I’d never make it before he was on me again.

“Thought you had to use the bathroom,” he says gruffly.

“I do,” I breathe out, turning in the chair to face him. He stands there, holding the strap of leather that held me. He has no expression that I can see, but based on the way his body is erect and knee slightly bent on his left leg, he’s waiting for me to bolt. “I don’t know where the bathroom is,” I say carefully, still rubbing my wrists.

“Right there.” He nods to a door just off the small kitchenette. “Go.”

I roll my ankles and prepare to stand up. I don’t know why the task seems so daunting, but it does. I press my hands down on the back of the chair and lift myself into the air, my head growing light.

Oh no. No, no, no…

I squeeze my eyes shut as my heart rate skyrockets and my ears begin to ring. I suck in a breath as I collapse backward in the chair, pain shooting through my tailbone. I whimper and drop my head to my hands, pissed that my well-managed POTS, a condition where position changes cause me to pass out, is suddenly rearing its ugly head.

“What the fuck is wrong with you?” His voice sounds distant over the ringing, but I ignore him. He doesn’t need to know about the weird syndrome I developed after my first loss.

“Emma,” his voice is brash and brutal. “What’s wrong?”

I tense at a brush of warmth on my elbow, and almost pull away. “I just need a moment. I’ve been sitting a long time.”

“Here.” Something cool presses into my lap, and I open my eyes to see the water bottle sitting there.

So I guess you’re not going to try to drown me again. Thanks. I pick it up and down the rest of it, ignoring the figure standing to my right. I don’t look at him as I finish the water. It won’t be enough to stave off my body’s response to standing, but all I can do is hope that all the work I’ve done will keep me from passing out.

A cramp clenches down on my lower abdomen, and I grit my teeth. I need to pee so bad. I drop the empty plastic water bottle to the floor and begin again, only this time, I’m ready.

I’m probably a real fucking spectacle as I stand again, readying myself to pass out for real this time. However, my spinning head fades as I lean against the chair while righting myself, and subsequently, I feel the warmth of his touch return.

“I don’t need you to help me,” I spit at him, though my voice waivers. I sound childish, but he doesn’t budge. It’s not worth the argument. I take a shaky step forward, and his hand remains on my elbow. It’s humiliating. All the games I want to play and all the strength I want to convey to him die at the feet of a health condition I can’t control.

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