Page 11 of I Will Mend You

I twist and turn, writhing across the floor in my straitjacket. He walks around to the seats behind where I’ve wriggled, trying to grab me by the straps around the back, but I’ve already scooted forward.

Nausea clogs my throat, and my heart pounds desperately against my rib cage, trying to escape. Each breath is a dry gasp that scrapes against my lungs like sandpaper. I can do this all night, stay in this decrepit bus until they tire of coaxing me out and leave.

Fen drops down to his hands and knees, placing his head on the bus’s floor. “Amy,” he says, his voice soft. “Don’t anger her.”

“Leave me alone,” I rasp, the words muffled by the head harness.

“What’s taking so long?” Dolly screeches from outside.

Another set of footsteps approach, followed by a low, masculine chuckle. “Having trouble?”

“Why don’t you shut the fuck up and help?” Fen snarls.

Locke crouches down and clears his throat. “I’m going to give you two choices. One, you can crawl out like a good girl and meet our producer.”

Gulping, I wait for him to continue, but I’m only met with silence.

“What’s the second choice?” I whisper, the words coming out like a strangled whimper.

“Or I can dose you with enough ketamine to knock out an elephant,” he says, his voice hardening. “Then you’ll wake up hours later with all four holes aching and filled with half a dozen different varieties of cum.”

Revulsion shudders through my insides, making me gag, and my mind dredges up the memory of seeing myself on video, being gang-raped in the graveyard.

“What’s the fourth hole?” Fen asks.

“Stab wound, which is something you’re about to get if you keep standing so close, you oaf,” Locke replies, his voice cold.

My stomach plummets. These people are monsters, and I have no doubt they’ll carry out their threats.

“I-I’ll come out,” I reply, my voice muffled.

Locke’s self-congratulatory chuckle grates on my nerves, but I force my legs to uncurl, letting Fen drag me out by the ankle.

Outside, the air is so heavy with pollen that my skin itches. I hold my breath and squeeze my eyes shut, not wanting to complicate this nightmare with hay fever. A familiar sense of unease overwhelms my senses as Fen carries me through the asylum’s open doors. The air is thick with the scent of damp, and a musty odor clings to my nostrils, making the fine hairs lining them tremble.

Ivy crawls across the hallway’s vaulted ceilings, and moss blankets one side of its crumbling walls. We pass doors hanging off their hinges, revealing rooms littered with rusty equipmentand overturned bed frames, giving the impression that the hospital was overrun by a riot.

Dolly and Locke stride ahead, filling the empty space with their excited chatter. They’re discussing production plans, lighting arrangements, and the recruitment of extras for their shoot.

My breath shallows, and everything I remember learning about X-Cite Media rises to the surface like a slap. I’m about to end up tortured and raped and murdered for a snuff movie.

Despair washes through my insides like acid. I dip my head onto Fen’s shoulder, unable to bear the thought of my impending death. His grip tightens around my middle, almost as if he’s offering me his strength.

It’s wishful thinking, and I’m projecting his non-existent compassion. If Fen felt an ounce of empathy for my plight, he would have taken back the wheel and driven me to freedom.

At the end of the hallway, we pass another door that opens into a wing in much better condition. Dolly and Locke disappear into a set of double doors marked STUDIO.

Fen follows them, carrying me into a large hall with lightweight scaffolding around its perimeter and across the ceiling. Lighting equipment lines the room’s edges, along with cables snaking across the wooden floor, leading to cameras mounted on tripods.

My brow furrows. I’m almost certain this used to be a dining room.

Locke walks to the left corner, where a black-haired man with a ponytail adjusts lighting fixtures under the direction of a muscular brunet in a leather jacket.

Dolly walks to the opposite corner, where an older man sits behind a desk with a fake office background. He leans forward, his eyes widening as he sees me in Fen’s arms.

“Uncanny,” he says, his cultured filled with awe. “Bring her here.”

I shudder, my heart pounding so hard it’s on the verge of rupturing. This has to be the producer.

---