Page 28 of Queen Of Dark Money

Ormaybe these fuckers were just weird.

Thisfucking dressIwas stuck in was becoming more and more uncomfortable with every passing minute, andIwished sincerely that there was anything to change into.Abright idea flitted into the front of my mind, and beforeIcould talk myself out of it,Iwas rushing back up the stairs, rifling through the dresser of my captor to find somethingIcould slither into.

Whateverkind of shit he did on the weekend necessitated sweatpants, oversized tee shirts, and hoodies, thankfully.Ididn’t even look at them;Ijust pulled a pair of black sweats from the first drawer, a black tee from the second, and a huge white sweatshirt from the last.Itwasn’t cold in here yet, butIwanted to be prepared, just in case.Imarched downstairs, infinitely warmer and more comfortable than whenIstarted, and padded slowly to the nearby bookshelf.

Surprisingly, or perhaps not, whenIstopped to think about it,Iknew some of the titles in his book collection and pulled an old favorite from its position, thumbing through the pages with care asIinhaled the scent of a book whose pages hadn’t seen the light of day for years.

Iloved the smell of an old book.

Thecouches were comfortable enough, but this place, for all the open space it boasted, felt almost . . . hollow.Somehow, though, amid the emptiness surrounding me, the quiet was stifling.Claustrophobiawas never somethingIstruggled with in my life before now, butIimagined, hadIever felt it, this was what it would have made me feel.

Trapped.Confined.Airin short supply.Muchlike my anxiety attacks, actually, but on a smaller scale.

Myeyes scanned the room for an escape of some sort and thankfully alighted on a nearby balcony.HopingIwasn’t about to set off some silent alarm that would bring a bunch of armed thugs running to detain me,Istrode over, book in hand, and cracked the glass door.Whennothing happened,Ishoved it far enough open to slip outside, relishing in the cool breeze that caressed my face like a lingering lover.

“Fuckme, fresh air never felt so damn good,”Isaid aloud, needing the sound of my voice to ground me.Iwas beginning to spiral, and that wouldn’t do me any good this high up with nobody around but a drunk asshole to keep me company.

Thenight sounds of every city were the same–cars, horns, sirens, and a low buzz beneath it all, hinting at the chaos from the day before still lingering beneath the slow pulse of the sleeping city.Butthis city,KhulaCity, something about it felt . . .different.Notthe same as the other placesI’dlain my head.

Itfelt almost toxic, like someone was lurking in the shadows, waiting for you to slip up so they could devour you whole.

Ididn’t like it.Thethought of it made my skin crawl.

“FuckallIcan do about it now,”Imuttered, taking a seat on the nearby chaise lounger pushed up against a wall just feet from the fancy rail. “Well, time to crack a book open and distract myself.”

ExceptwhenIlooked down at the book,Icouldn’t bring myself to turn a single page.Thecover felt smooth beneath my fingers, all worn leather and soft velvet, like a pool table that had never been used.Therewere divots in the spine where it’d been repeatedly opened and closed by someone who so obviously loved this book and its contents.Thesentiment of having something so loved for long enough to leave a permanent mark on it stung.I’dnever had a belonging in my life thatIcared for that deeply.

Nothing.

Exceptmy mother.

Shewas the only thing that mattered to me.

Asingle, wet splotch appeared on the book's surface asIblinked furiously, trying to fight off the incoming panic attack.Icouldn’t break down right now;Ijust couldn’t.Ihad to stay strong.

She’llstart to worry ifIdon’t check in soon.Icall her every night.

Ihad my phone whenIwas kidnapped, but where it had gone in that short time,Ihad no clue.Probablypicked up and chucked out a window by the assholes who took me so that it couldn’t be tracked.IfIwas fortunate, they only turned it off when they shoved a bag over my head and raced off.

Thatwas the best-case scenario.

Theworst?

Ididn’t want to think about it.Mymental state wasn’t balanced enough to deal with it.

Iswiped a finger beneath my eye furiously, hating the weaknessIdisplayed in front of what amounted to my enemies.Iwould not break where they could see me.Iwas not some wilting flower.Icould handle this;I’dget through it.

Justto spite them all.

Thedull noises from the city tens of stories below us only agitated me, not calm or soothe me likeI’dhoped for.Theyweren’t my city’s noises, and my mind knew that.Somedeeper, intrinsic part of me registered the sheer difference and yearned for the familiar.Iached to be home, or even at the hospital with my mother, something familiar, though disturbingly sad in its realization.

“Stupidhormones.”IfIblamed something else, other than my own sadness, maybeI’dbe able to pretend it didn’t hurt so fucking bad.PerhapsI’dbe able to navigate this situation ifIcould just pretend it wasn’t my own shortcomings causing me to break down.

ButIknew the truth.Iwas weak.I’dalways been weak at the core of it.

Peopletook the power to be strong from me a long ass time ago, andIhadn’t been able to find it since.Mywhole life was one big string of panic attacks, anxiety, and second-guessing myself about everything.I’dnever known the level of confidenceIlet my mother believeIpossessed.Ifshe knew how early in lifeI’dbroken apart, she’d have never let me out of her sight.Andone of us had to be strong; since she couldn’t be that right now for me,I’dbe strong for her.

Nomatter how much it hurt or how tight it made my chest.

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