Page 22 of Psyop Kings

But it doesn’t turn.

It’s locked. From the outside.

Panic overwhelms me again. The sick feeling in my gut has bile creeping up my esophagus. I’m going to puke. Doubling over, I try to breathe through the violent churning in my midsection. I do end up gagging but manage to swallow back the acidic burn in the back of my throat.

It’s okay.

You’re okay.

I fight tears as I force myself to breathe in and out with even, measured breaths. Once my chest no longer feels like it’s going to explode, I stand upright again and make my way over to the mirror.

The woman staring back at me is haunted.

My normally twinkling blue eyes are twitchy and dark circles hang just below them above my cheeks. Skin that’s usually free of blemishes or imperfections is splotchy red, tear-stained, and dripping with perspiration. Blond hair that’s typically straightened to sleek perfection is matted, mussed up, and sticking to my damp face. A purple bruise the size of a quarter can be seen on my neck where I’d been injected against my will.

I’m not hurt and still in one piece, though.

That’s something.

Since I don’t have to pee, I realize I must have released my bladder again while in captivity. I reek of urine, so maybe my captors really just want me to bathe so I’ll stop stinking up their house.

As an act of defiance, I could refuse to.

But washing up and soaking in the hot water might make me feel like my normal self. I might be able to inject some bravery into my veins so I can find a way out of here.

I make the decision to shower despite the fear lurking in the back of my mind. At any moment, all three brothers could come in here and get me.

Even if they did, I’d be powerless against them. Against one, sure, I could put up a fight. Two, I might have a smidgen of a chance. But three? I’m nothing against the three of them.

Since there don’t appear to be any cameras in here and no windows for anyone to peek in, I quickly pull the robe off, grab a towel, and step into the massive walk-in shower. Thankfully, instead of having a glass door, it’s one of those kinds you walk into and are hidden behind a three-quarter-high wall. My head and shoulders can be seen, but nothing else.

It takes me a minute to figure out how to work the shower, but then ice-cold water spurts out. I stifle a scream, pressing against the stone wall with my butt and standing on my tiptoes until the water turns from arctic to bearable to blissfully hot.Once it’s at a tolerable temperature, I make my way under the spray and groan with happiness.

Getting clean is going to do wonders for my sanity.

The bathroom has shampoo, conditioner, and bodywash in that order conveniently affixed to one of the stone walls. An unused loofa hangs on a tiny hook beside them.

As much as I want to hang out under the steamy spray of water that feels good on my tense muscles, I wash up at record speed. The last thing I want is to be caught by my captors naked. After I’ve rinsed off, I dry off and put the robe back on. A glance in the mirror tells me I’m at least somewhat my normal self.

Now what?

Do I bang on the door and yell, hoping someone will let me out? Do I try to pick the lock? With what? There aren’t any drawers or any closets in here, reminding me of a hotel bathroom.

Is that where I am?

In a hotel?

I go back over to the door and press my ear to the wood, listening for voices or noises. Nothing. I try the knob again, and to my utter shock, it turns in my hand.

My heart starts hammering away again. With slow, measured movements, I peel the door open a crack. Cool, fresh air tickles my still-damp face. The eye that’s peeking out surveys the room.

It’s dark aside from a small lamp that’s illuminated on a table beside a queen-sized bed. To my utter relief, I see my freshly laundered clothes neatly folded on top of the bed and my shoes sitting beside them.

I rush toward them and scramble for my underwear first. Once I slide them on beneath my robe, I go for my jeans next. After safely covering my bottom half, I turn my back to the bedroom door and quickly put on the rest of my clothes. Despite having covered up in my own clothes, I can’t stop shaking somuch my teeth rattle and my muscles ache. I slip on my socks and tennis shoes last before eyeing the bedroom door again.

I step over the discarded robe on the floor and tiptoe to the door. Not surprisingly, it’s locked from the outside. I press my ear to this new door to listen for voices, sounds, or clues.

Nothing.

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