Page 10 of Take Me

That’s when another terrifying thought strikes.

The Facebook post.

No one will even look for me here. Everyone thinks I went to Italy.

My breath speeds up to a frantic pace. The air crashes in and out of my mouth so quickly it doesn’t reach my lungs. The darkness closes in around me, thick and oppressive. I frantically whip my head back and forth, trying to see anything, just a tiny dot of light.

Nothing.

Pitch-black nothingness swallows me up.

I shoot my hands up to rip at the bag over my head, but my wrists catch on the ropes. Struggling, I lift my legs and my head to get my hands closer to the bag, but the rope is too short. No matter how much I twist and turn, my hands remain stuck at waist level, never getting close to the fabric.

So I fumble for a hatch instead, scooting back and forth in the confined space, shoving my hands under the pillows, reaching as far up the edges as I can go. It’s awkward and a hassle—especially when I search the inside of the lid and have to lift my back off the floor to reach it.

I’m balancing on my ass when the car hits a hard bump, and I crash into the side, bouncing off the pillows and hitting my head on the floor. I moan through the sharp burst of pain and curl up on my side as I accept defeat.

I’m not getting out of here until someone takes me out.

Hopelessness descends upon me anew, as dark and heavy as the blackness surrounding me.But just as I’m about to succumb to it, a little flicker of hope comes alight.

Nikolai.He doesn’t have my Facebook. He took me to the train this evening, kissed me goodbye, and told me he looked forward to seeing me again. He saw me get on the train, and I told him I’d text him once I arrived in Brasov.

Will he worry when he doesn’t receive that text? Will he even care enough?

I have no idea, but it’s all I have. So I cling to the hope and let it be my beacon of light through the nightmare that has only just begun.

***

I’m bouncing on a hard shoulderagain, my bound hands and legs flopping against a strong body after they cut the rope connecting them. Thefresh air seeping through the hood brings me the scent of pine and wet dirt. It reminds me of Nikolai. And quiet hours spent hiking among the trees. But the scent does little to soothe me. Rather, it seems foreboding in my trussed-up state, witnessing a secluded place where my chances of rescue might be nil.

The bumpy ride has left me drained and sore. All fight is gone, my senses dulled after having been confined to the narrow space for God knows how long. All I can do as the bulky man carries me down a long flight of stairs is gasp and groan, stiffening my muscles to abate the bouncy movements.

A heavy door screeches, and the air becomes dry with a sort of dusty, old smell. The smell of stone walls.

Bright light of the artificial kind filters through the hood, and the thudding steps of my captors become a loud echo as the sounds bounce off hard surfaces.

The acoustics change slightly as if we enter a smaller space, and then there’s the clank of another hefty door.

Iron.

The bulky man places me on the ground, and then two sets of hands are on me, cutting off my clothes with mechanical proficiency.

My whole body is shaking once they’re done. I want to cry out of sheer desperation, but I’m too numb, too stuck in the shock of it all.

“Get up,” a gruff voice orders, and before I can even think to obey, someone jerks me up by the rope on my hands.

I stagger, barely able to find the strength to support my own weight. My tied feet are no help, and I sway from side to side when the man fastens my bound hands to something high above my head.

He cuts the rope on my neck and yanks the hood off. Sharp light assaults my eyes. Blinking, I catch glimpses of stone walls and ceilings from another era. Eerily old, but well-maintained. Two large figures loom in my periphery, and I try to focus my gaze to get a better look, but a jet of cold water throws my attention into chaos. I fall backward, wincing as the ropes strain around my wrists and icy coldness engulfs me.

I gasp to catch my breath and shuffle my feet to regain balance but never find it.

When the water stops, I’m hanging limply in the ropes. The painful bite into my wrists is nothing compared to the cold. It stabs at my skin and gnaws into my bones, and jerky shudders rip through my body and set my teeth chattering. I’m almost grateful when a set of calloused hands start soaping me up from head to toe. They travel over my skin in rough motions, making me feel cheap and worthless, but heating me nonetheless.

The small relief is brief, though. Soon, cold water splashes over my body anew, washing away the soap, the last few slivers of heat, and my dignity. Then the same rough hands pat me dry with a towel.

It’s almost a relief when the other man pulls me into him, pressing my head to his chest and steadying me with an arm around my body, taking some of the weight off my bound hands. I have no idea what he’s doing, but I almost don’t care as I’m desperate for the heat he provides. I know that it’s the same man from the train—the one who put the hood over my head, put me in the trunk, and told me to breathe. I know because he’s less rough than the one who tied me up and soaped my body, his hands smoother, less mechanical.