Page 18 of Overcast

Cracking my eyes open,the ache is what registers first. Then my death-grip on my newly discovered weapon I confiscated early. Both are the same, and where I left them before I involuntarily fell asleep or passed out from the agony of what is now my reality.

But the man who wounded me, he wasn’t sitting in front of me when I drifted off and away like he is now.

The same intensity is glossed over his eyes as my captor hunches over the back of a chair, inhaling on a cigarette while studying me intently.

Like a predator, debating if he can take me.

He can.

I’ve never hit anyone in my life. Never sparred in an argument or thrown punches at someone.

And under his intense stare, every breath of mine is strained, attempting to contain and control the distress my frame is alluding to.

Emric.

Now that I know his name, it gives me something to call my anxiety and the numbness that pricks and stings at my body.

If looks could maim and kill, he would have me on life support right now.

Tightening the grip on the broken broomstick that I found when one of his accomplices carried me down to this damp and old basement, I attempt to push myself closer to the cool wall behind me.

He’s a few feet away, filling the space with apprehension while my body is on high alert. He’s the nuclear bomb, and I’m trying to get out of town while he has it on lockdown.

His full frame is intimidating, waiting for me to make a move. He’s still in the same clothes I saw him in last time, so I assume it’s the same day since he flung his metal blade into me and delivered the most excruciating pain I’ve ever felt in my life.

“You think that stick is going to protect you, sweetheart?” One of his brows lifts in earnest. As if I’m truly serious to consider that this pathetic piece of wood is going to keep him away from me.

The answer is not exactly, but I feel a little safer with it in my hand,

Tilting his head to the side, he waits for a response I don’t have because it’s stupid. He would break this thing in half with one swift crack over his knee and probably stab me again with it.

Regardless, I’m aware my knuckles are white from clutching onto it so tightly, but I’m not loosening my grip. He can taunt me all he wants with his dumb questions, but it’s all I have, and it’s mine now.

“I need…to go to the hospital,” I mutter, keeping his gaze and trying to forget what he’s done so far.

As if that’s ever going to happen.

I dare not look at my wound, although it’s numbing and throbbing at the same time. I’m not the sort of person that can stomach blood, let alone tend to a knife wound.

I’m that wimp who can barely tolerate a spider, let alone an open gash that needs stitches.

But the knife would have to come out first.

Yes, it’s still there.

The man who’s called Mills was careful while carrying me inside this house. I thanked him by screaming at the top of my lungs the moment he moved me from the backseat of the SUV we drove in which earned me a scowl, angry scolding, and the threat of tossing me down the stairs on my ass.

The end of the cigarette that’s now between Emric’s fingers burns red as he pulls in for another inhale. And when he blows out the smoke, it’s blatantly done in my direction, wafting of skunk.

He’s smoking weed and getting high while I’m bleeding out on the dirty floor of a random basement.

Emerging from his chair, Emric kicks it to the side, the deafening screech of the wood scraping at my already battered nerves.

He towers over me, which isn’t the ideal situation because I appear like prey again. He draws the air that I can inhale and siphons that away from me too especially when he takes a menacing step forward.

Gaping down at me, he watches me stare up at him.

No cocky smirk or amusement lines his features. The singular emotion that stands out, however, is hatred that I’ve already become acquainted with.

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