Page 25 of Taking Me

He squeezes my finger tightly, quickly bringing my knife up to continue to use it against me. Marklov cuts my finger clean off as if it were nothing. As if the bone was nonexistent. I could taste the sweat, and my tears mixed together, slipping into my mouth.

The gag muffles my screams, turning them into desperate whimpers. The pain is immediate and blinding, and I can feel the blood pulsing from the wound, each heartbeat a reminder of my vulnerability.

Marklov’s eyes are cold, devoid of any remorse.

“Now you understand,” he whispers, his voice a chilling lullaby. “Pain is the only language you can comprehend.”

The next thing I see is darkness…

Nineteen

Hope

Iwake up from my sleep, my body aching with every movement. How long have I been out? Each cut that Marklov inflicted on my skin throbs painfully, the sharp stings constantly bringing back his wrath. Every breath I take seems to amplify the pain, making it almost intolerable.

I must have blacked out after… I look over at my finger and see the bandage wrapped around it. The sight churns my stomach, a sickening reminder of what he put me through last night. The unshed tears I have been desperately holding in start to rise to the surface. I roll my eyes back and blink fast, trying to conceal them as much as possible.

My eyes widen. “My finger, my fuckin’ finger is gone! You bastard!” I scream out, causing my voice to crack. I could hear the echo of my scream linger in the hallway.

Anger surges through me, mingling with the adrenaline as the realization of my missing finger sets in. My breathing becomes heavy and uneven. Darkness threatens to overwhelm me, but I refuse to give in. When I get pissed off, I usually get tothrash out, but here I can’t. Here, I just have to accept it and let some tears free, determined to find a way out no matter what it takes.

It is too quiet down here; my tinnitus is screaming at me, and my heartbeat makes a sick thumping noise.

I am alone. I am in pain. I am afraid.

Being alone and in pain is something I’m used to, but fear is a whole new beast. The darkness feels heavier more suffocating, and every second drags on, making me wonder if I’ll ever find a way out. Once somewhat comforting, this room is now just as dark as the previous one. It is cold here. My body is shivering uncontrollably, breaking out with goosebumps. I can feel myself getting weaker with every passing moment—each breath I take drives a spike of pain through my rib cage, the dried blood on my skin is itchy, and my finger is throbbing painfully. My mouth is dry again, making my lips crack, and my stomach aches so badly that even thinking about food makes me want to throw up. I am caught between a rock and a hard place with no way out.

I can see a shadowy figure under the door; the guard must be outside. Of course he is. Why wouldn’t he be?

As I lay here curled up, staring at the wall, I can’t help but think that if I had just killed him that night instead of running, my mom would still be here, and I wouldn’t be in this mess. The regret gnaws at me, each thought a painful reminder of what could have been. If I had been strong enough to face him then and not a pussy, maybe everything would be different now.

I have just one thing to fuckin’ say about this whole twisted ordeal.

“Let. Me. Go. Or. Let. Me. Die.”

* * *

My mind keeps calling out to Ghost, desperately hoping he canhear me through the suffocating silence. Each plea feels like a lifeline thrown into the abyss, making me question my sanity. I wonder if I’m losing my grip on reality, clinging to the hope that he might somehow sense my distress and rescue me.

A part of me can feel him. I can feel the rise and fall of his chest when he was fighting to stay awake. I can hear his heartbeat loud and clear when I close my eyes and focus hard enough. It feels almost like he is sending signals to me.

He must be out there somewhere, and better yet, alive.

This connection I keep feeling will drive me fuckin’ crazier than I already am. I know it sounds insane, but fuck man, trust me when I say that I have a weird sense for this shit. I cannot help but think that man, that stranger is my only hope and refuge. That connection to him pulls me back whenever I feel like giving up. It’s like a lifeline tethering me to a reality where he’s still out there, where our paths will cross again.

Sometimes, in the quiet moments, I hear his voice, a whisper in the wind, urging me to hold on just a little longer, warning me that he is coming.

“I am coming for you, Little Killer.”

This profound connection, this unbreakable invisible thread between us, keeps me going. Ghost is the shadow I want with me in my darkest nights, the hint of something tangible that will defy all odds. Whenever I feel lost in Marklovs grasp, I can almost sense him reaching out, even if it’s just in my mind. A part of me clings to the idea that he can feel this connection too, that somehow, across the distance and the silence, he knows. I just hope I’m right and that he feels it even a bit.

* * *

I must have passed out while in deep thought; those thoughts alone brought me a different type of peace and comfort. Theymade me forget what my life and world currently consisted of.

All I ever wanted in life was to feel a sense of safety and security, and it took me one night, one text, and one man in a mask who showed me a piece of his own darkness to even come close to that.

At twenty-five years old, I finally felt it. I’ve been alone all my fuckin’ life. Yet, I would change it all for this man alone. His presence, even in his darkness, brought me a glimpse of what I’d been yearning for—a sense of belonging, a feeling that I was no longer adrift in this vast, unfeeling world. He showed me that I was not any different than him. I belong somewhere, and that is with him.

---