Page 53 of Irreversible

He tosses a slice of dry bread into the cell.

Dropping the cup, I shoot forward and snatch his arm before he pulls away. “Roger, please.” My voice is soft, melodic, a picture of sincerity. “Help me.”

I can’t see his face.

Is he smiling?

Am I reaching him?

My touch remains gentle, my fingers loosely coiling around his meaty forearm. Coarse hairs tickle me as I brush the pad of my thumb across his skin.

But I wince when he violently rips his arm from my grip with a furious grunt, the force of it sending me staggering back. “No…no, please. You have a heart; I know you do. You can do the right thing. I won’t tell. I won’t tell anyone. I—” The shadow retreats, evaporating into the blackness as I grab my hair with both hands. “Roger, please!”

A heavy door claps shut.

He’s gone.

He left me here to rot.

I collapse to the unforgiving floor and burrow into a one-person huddle, my arms around my knees, head bowed. Time trudges by in agonizing increments.

I start counting the seconds.

I count out loud, my raspy, torn-up voice reminding me that I’m still here, still breathing, still capable of surviving this.

Fifty-two, fifty-three…

My hand sifts around for the stale piece of bread, and I nibble on the ends, counting between bites.

One-thousand-eighty-seven…

I think of Nick.

Isaac.

Whoever he is.

I envision what he looks like, try to put a face to the gritty, masculine voice that often cracks with veiled vulnerability. He’s not immune to this. He’s hurting, too.

But he told the monster to take me away.

I wonder if he’s already forgotten about me.

His image is hazy; a blurry, foggy face with dark eyes and darker hair.

Handsome.

I bet he’s handsome in that rugged, unapproachable way. Tall. Well-muscled. While Jasper wore form-fitting slacks and silken ties, always groomed to perfection, I picture Nick in adifferent way. Ratty jeans and T-shirts, with a disheveled tousle of inky hair. He’s messy. Disorder. A nightmare disguised as a dream.

Ten-thousand-thirty-nine…

My eyes begin to draw shut like age-old blinds, all sound drowning out. Even my voice fades into nothingness as vivid flashes creep into my psyche and haunt me with images of men in black cloaks. A ritual of blood and fire. Daggers gleam and torches burn, while I lie strapped to a wooden table, naked and carved, as The Timekeeper looms over me with a smile.

I’m the sacrifice.

I startle awake moments later, sprawled out across the cold cement.

I’ve lost track of the seconds, so I start over.

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