Page 25 of Irreversible

And then there’s a lot of pounding, chain-rattling, wall-punching, and shouting for help.

“Are you awake?” Nick taps the wall beside my head. “I need names.”

I chew on the skin around my nail to distract my mouth from the one thing it really wants to do.

Talk. Purge.

Beg for him to get us out of here.

But there’s no point. If I talk to him, I’ll get to know him.

And if I get to know him, he’s only going to become one more thing for me to miss.

I don’t say that, though, because it’s depressing, and I don’t want to be responsible for adding to this guy’s ever-growing list of sad things.

I tug at the hem of my white cotton-and-lace nightdress, one of the few items of clothing I have in this quaint room. Roger seems to like it when I wear this, and I’ve deduced that it’s because he can see my nipples through the thin fabric. “Does it matter?” I finally respond, my voice shaky.

He’s still tapping the wall. There are a few seconds in between thumps, and I wonder if he’s using his head.

“I wouldn’t have asked if it didn’t matter.” The words strain through clenched teeth.

“The details of my imprisonment won’t change your fate.”

“What is my fate, exactly?”

“I think you already know that answer.”

Nick scoffs, the sound edged with bitterness. “I’m not dying in this shithole.”

My eyes water, even though I was certain I had no tears left. “They always say that.”

“Who?”

“Every prisoner that’s come before you.”

Another long silence fills the space between us. Twenty-seven seconds to be exact.

“How many have there been?” He repeats the question I evaded the first time. “Could any of them be alive? Like you?”

“I don’t know.” I bite my lip. “And…I’ve lost count of how many.”

That’s a lie.

And, apparently, he knows that.

“You’re lying.”

My chest squeezes. Exactly forty-three people have come before him, and all forty-three have choked on their noble promises and gallant words.

We’re all doomed.

“The last person in that room was a woman named Joy,” I tell him.

What an awful irony. I bet her mother named her Joy to guarantee her happiness, but even the Joys of the world are susceptible to unspeakable evil.

“Joy,” he echoes, the syllable laced with ridicule.

“Yes.”

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