Page 4 of Psyop Kings

Wait.

Thud. Thud. Thud. Thud.

The cadence of the thudding is what I’m realizing are footsteps. Firm, long strides. The person is tall and big. Another ripple of fear travels down my spine. Focus. The sounds are getting closer.

Closer. Closer. Closer.

I count each step, mentally calculating how far away the person is coming from. Usually, details don’t matter. They’re not important. That’s what the therapist says. This time, she’d be wrong.

Details—like the distance from my trap to a door to the outside—could be a key to my freedom.

So I continue to count and measure. Eleven, twelve, thirteen, fourteen. My thoughts race for a moment, making me lose count. But not for long. I don’t know if it’s the adrenaline that’s pushed the potency of the drugs forced into my system or just the passing of time, since I have no idea how long I’ve been here—but it’s losing its strong hold on me.

Good.

I lean my head to the side, wondering where the sounds went. Did I imagine them? No, I heard them. I counted them. Fourteen steps. Or was it fifteen? The darkness only confuses me and makes me question reality.

Thud. Thud. Thud.

Squeak.

I want to cry out and beg to be released, but I don’t know who’s on the other side. They’re there, though. I can sense them. A weighted presence nearby has each hair on my sweat-slicked arms standing on end. My bladder aches and my thoughts race along, wondering if they’ll release me to use the bathroom. I squeeze my thighs together, shuddering at the thought of peeing on myself.

Focus, Romy.

Your captor is close!

I hear some shuffling and then yellow light slides its way into my space. I’m not exactly sure how it’s getting in, but then I see cracks between wood panels.

I think…I think I’m under the floor.

The sound of keys jangling has me holding my breath in anticipation. I fist my hands and brace myself to attack the second I’m freed from this prison. I’ll catch the captor off guard and run the seventeen or so steps away from this hellhole.

Timing is everything.

Aside from the keys clanking together, I don’t hear anything else. No heavy breathing from the person, no words, nothing. I’m wondering if he’s expecting me to scream or cry. I sure as hell want to, but I’m not stupid. It would become their focus—shutting me up—and I’m not sure what that would entail. I don’t want to know.

I hear more shuffling and the sound of the keys is gone. Then there’s a click—a distinct sound of a lock disengaging.

Don’t move.

Bide your time.

A clunk can be heard on the floor. I’m assuming the person just set down the lock to my cage.

I wait an agonizingly long twenty-seven seconds before metal clinks against metal. Then the door swings open above me. After having been in the dark, the light is blinding, and I squint to try to make out the shadowed form. Before I can launch myself out of the hole, I’m staring down the barrel of a fierce-looking handgun.

I’ve never seen a gun up close and now one is inches from my eyeball. All hope of escaping floods away along with the hold on my bladder. Warmth soaks my jeans, and the pungent smell of urine hits my nostrils.

“Oh, little brother,” a deep, gravelly voice utters, “what have you done this time?”

The door slams closed before I can utter a word. My gut roils at the sound of the lock snapping closed. Then all light is snuffed out as something once again covers the trapdoor of my prison.

I’m trapped.

Again.

This time, I find my voice.

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