Page 26 of Taking Me

Would he even want me anymore? I’m broken, bruised, and damaged. A monster has marked me and now claims me as his own.

I cringe at everything: the littlest sounds and the slightest movements. Marklov left marks on me, and in me, that would ride out the rest of my life with me if I ever did escape this place. Marks that any sane person would turn their heads in disgust at the sight of them.

Every time I catch a glimpse of myself, I am overwhelmed by a wave of deep, unrelenting disgust. It is as if every flaw, mistake, and regret is etched into my skin, staring back at me with a cruel clarity that I can’t seem to escape.

I feel trapped in this relentless cycle of self-loathing, where every look at myself reminds me of the person I now am. The pain of facing myself is almost unbearable, and it feels like I’m drowning in my sorrows.

No man would want to touch me after seeing what surfaced my once smooth skin. Granted the scars I already have on my body, I came to accept them as a part of me and who I have become.

Marklov carved an “M” on my upper inner thigh, claiming me as his. He slid a blade across my skin, leaving cuts that bled just enough to dry up. He knew they weren’t deep enough to become infected, so he played it safe and smart. The pain was real, but the emotional scars ran even more profound, a constant reminder of the control he has over me.

I try to reposition myself, and the pain is fuckin’ unbearable. I have cold sweats, my body is trembling, my head hurts, and I am completely back in a position that is not to my advantage.

The chain connected to my ankle made a scrapping noise on the flooring, alerting anyone listening that I am awake.

The shadow lingering just outside my room door moved, and I heard a man’s voice make a call. “She is awake, Boss,” he said in a deep voice. I could see his shadow position right back to where it was before the call.

A part of me wants to call out, but it would be useless. I don’t write this man’s paychecks, and besides, that man owes me not one fuckin’ thing. He wouldn’t care if I screamed until my voice gave out. He’s got his own agenda, and I’m just an inconvenient obstacle in his way.

The minutes drag on, stretching into what feels like an eternity. My focus narrows to the sound of my raspy breathing and the relentless grumbling of my stomach. Every second is a reminder of my discomfort and isolation. The only position that brings even a semblance of comfort is curling up in the fetal position, where I can try to shield myself from the oppressive weight of time and my gnawing hunger. It’s as if the world outside has ceased to exist, leaving me trapped in this everlasting moment of agony and despair.

I closed my eyes and try to think of anything to distract my mind. I am a prisoner, the worst kind of prisoner,Marklovsprisoner.

I can hear faint footsteps approaching, getting closer and closer. I don’t dare to move; maybe if Marklov thinks I’m asleep, he’ll leave me alone. Yeah, right. Like he gives a damn about my privacy, as if pretending to be asleep would make any difference to that bastard.

The footsteps come to a halt. I can hear whispering, but I can’t make out a damn word they’re saying. I know that anything coming out of Marklov’s mouth is no bueno. No good. I have to face it as it comes to me; what else can I do? I’m just a cog in his malevolent machine.

The door swings open, making me flinch a little. “Oh, Little Sinister, I hope I’m not interrupting your peaceful sleep,” he says in a dark tone and then slaps my ass. The touch of his flesh against mine brings back vivid memories of the night before. I squeeze my eyes shut, trying to push them away as far as I can. I let out a low groan.

“Your friend is quite the little messmaker, Little Sinister,” he said annoyedly. I have no fuckin’ idea who he could be talking about. Wait. Ghost. He is the only one who I could deem a messmaker. Hell, he is the only one I am associated with now. What exactly does he mean, though?

I lie still, confusion written all over my face. I don’t want to move from my spot, but I have questions. Questions that need answers.

Is Ghost searching for me? If that’s the case, why and how does Marklov know? Is he just trying to mess with my head? Is this some kind of twisted test? I’m confused and flustered, but I’m not falling for his shit or his sick mind games.

I want to sit up, but the pain in my body would intensify, and Marklov would probably not like the sight of me looking the slightest bit happy or hopeful, not one damn bit.

“I know you’re awake and listening. I just wanted to warn you before matters get worse for you.” What does that even mean?My breathing begins to quicken, my heart pounding in my chest. The room feels colder, and a sense of dread washes over me. Suddenly, the door creaks open, and a group of men enters the room, their expressions stern and unyielding.

“This will break you. I will fucking break you, Little Sinister.” Marklovs voice taunts me.

His hand starts tracing my prickly skin, sending shivers down my spine. I jerk away from his touch, jumping up in alarm. My eyes dart around the room, wide with fear and confusion. He chuckles at the sight, clearly amused by my reaction. The sound of his laughter only heightens my anxiety, making me feel even more trapped and vulnerable.

The men approach me, each of them grabbing me by a limb, forcing me into the star position. I try to fight them off of me. I start kicking, scratching, and biting at them. It was a weak attempt for someone in my position. My eyes dart to each and every one of their faces.

My brain taking in every little detail of who is touching me, imprinting their faces into my memory. Marklov stands at the side of the bed, a look of disappointment spreading across his face. Does he just want me to sit here like a fuckin paraplegic? Yeah, over my dead fuckin’ body.

Marklov reaches into his pocket, and a sudden glint catches my eye, sending a jolt of dread through me. My heart races as I try to scream, but before I can make a sound, a guard shoves a cloth into my mouth, silencing me. The room closes in, and my muffled cries echo in my ears.

Tears stream down my face uncontrollably, each one a testament to my growing despair. I watch in horror as he removes his rings, replacing them with brass knuckles, the metallic clinks echoing ominously in the room. My heart pounds in my chest, and all I can think is,fuck me, this can’t be happening.

Marklov approaches me slowly, the brass knuckles glinting ominously in the dimmed room. My heart pounds in my chest, each beat echoing in my ears like a drum. He kneels beside me, his face inches from mine, and I can feel the cold metal of the brass knuckles brushing against my cheek.

He leans into my ear, his lips grazing my skin. “You should have known better,” he whispers, his voice dripping with malice. “You brought this upon your-fucking-self. Little Sinister. I warned you, God damn it!” he shouts, his words laced with pure hatred.

With a swift motion, he strikes me across the face, the pain exploding in my skull. My vision blurs and the taste of blood fills my mouth as I struggle against the restraints. The guards hold me tighter, their grip like iron, and I can do nothing but endure the onslaught.

I force myself to instill the strength honed within me to look up. Marklov’s expression never changes. The disappointment is still etched into his features. He stands up, looking down at me with a mixture of pity and disdain.

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