Page 17 of Wiley A.F.

“Never,” he sneered, raking a pencil down the side of his bedpost.

I swore I’d always protect my little brother and anyone else who needed it because no one did it for me. Not even Mom. Of course, I didn’t hate her for it then or now. She was so damn brainwashed, she barely knew her own name.

14

Z

My heavy eyelids sluggishly lifted, and my head pounded along with the beat of my heart that I grew more aware of with each second. The events flashed through my head. I was such a fucking idiot. This was the last time I would tell myself I saw Malcom. It didn’t matter what I wanted from him. He was dead. I would have to deal with my guilt-ridden demons sometime in my life, but there would be no closure, and after my last episode, I was honestly able to say I was okay with that.

It took a few minutes for clarity to sink in. It was a dream. A shiver traveled up my spine, and I yawned, lifting my hands over my head to hold onto the headboard. Only it wasn’t there. A cool cement wall greeted my skin instead. This wasn’t my room at all, but that posed the question where was I?

My body rolled over and my eyes focused on metal bars. I didn’t remember doing anything that would land me in jail, so I doubted that was where I was.

“Hello?” I called out for someone. “Is anyone here?” I frantically said, instantly wishing I hadn’t opened my mouth. I had become a statistic. I hated the characters on horror movies who automatically assumed someone would help them instead of searching for their own way out. A shadow darkened the doorway, and he cleared his throat.

“Sorry about the bars, but I need answers.”

“Not the best way to get answers.” I said, refusing to be the victim regardless of my current situation.

“You’re right, but they’re to keep you safe.”

I laughed. “Yeah, just like the warning label on a pack of cigarettes does a smoker, right? It makes everything okay if you say you are letting the person know they’re in danger.” My words ran into each other and now anger bubbled beneath my skin. This was a situation I always hoped I would never find myself in but refused to be a coward now that I was. I wasn’t going down without a fight, if it had to be psychological, so be it.

“I’ve liked you since the first time we met, he said, popping the light on and entering the room. “I brought you some food.”

“We met? Wh-wh-when?” I stuttered, silently telling myself I was seeing things again. Malcom took two steps into the room, and my mouth watered as soon as the delicious scent floated into my nose. Odd. Now, I wasn’t only seeing shit, all my senses were playing tricks on me because I would swear that was a very edible mound of spaghetti.”

“Would you stop staring at me like that? I know it’s fucking weird, okay? He got all of my tattoos. Okay. I’ll tell you what, I’m going to let you out, and we’re going to have dinner together, and I’ll explain, if you promise not to run.”

“Where could I go? You’ll just follow me,” I said flatly, accepting my mind was going to go on this trip with or without my consent.

He sat the plate down onto the floor and pulled a set of keys out of his jeans. After he unlocked the cage, he nodded toward the plate of spaghetti. “Grab that before Zeus gets it?”

“Who the fuck is Zeus?” My eyes nervously shifted around the small room.

“He’s the reason I have the cage.”

“Is Zeus a fucking bear?” My fingers gripped the plate so hard, I was afraid it was going to break, but my pent-up tension had to go somewhere. If the glass shattered as a result, so be it. “Maybe a dragon?” I tiptoed behind him cautiously while mentally trying to memorize the floor plan in case I had a chance to escape. This felt too real to be an illusion the longer it went on, and I started believing it over the actual events the more time passed.

“Ha. Close to a bear. He’s my Great Dane. I have to put him in his kennel when I’m not here or he’ll eat my entire house. Fuckstick has already demolished two of my couch cushions and one of its arms.”

I froze into place as a gray and white horse of a dog leisurely strolled to my side, lifting his nose to the plated food in my grasp. His humongous tongue whipped up the side of my arm, and my eyes widened. That felt real and there was no denying it. Everything feels too realistic to be some convoluted dream my mind made up as a coping mechanism.

“Zeus. Down!” he commanded, and Zeus dropped to the floor in a lying position, wagging his tail. “He’s harmless, might lick you to death or steal your food, but other than that, his bark is most definitely worse than his bite.”

He led us into the dining room and waved his hand over a table with four chairs pushed against it. After doing a quick scan of the house, I assumed he lived alone because there were no toys laying around as proof of a kid living here, other than ones that looked like ones that belonged to his dog. Not that his house having only four chairs at the table affirmed or disproved my theory entirely, but it at the very least he didn’t have any visible highchairs. I guess it didn’t really matter who or what lived here right now. The first thing I needed to figure out had nothing to do with it and everything to do with figuring out who this man was.

I sat in the seat and watched as his muscles moved beneath the ink that I was all too familiar with. He twirled a few noodles onto the fork and as he lifted it to his mouth he stopped. “Are you not going to eat? You have to be starving. What’s wrong?”

“Let’s see, I woke up in a ceiling to wall cage. I’m not sure if you’re real or a figment of my imagination. If you are actually in the room with me, who are you? Are you Malcom? My hands are fucking filthy, and I can’t eat because refer to my first point. Who in their right mind would willingly sit down and eat fucking spaghetti right now? But mostly, I think I’m having a nervous breakdown or I’m dead, perhaps both.” I spoke so quickly my words ran into one another, and then I huffed, “Oh and why would I eat it? It could be poisoned.”

“Go wash your hands. The sink is right there,” he said in bored tone and nodded over his shoulder to the kitchen sink. I hesitantly lifted myself from the chair, heading in the direction he instructed.

“I am not that fucking sick man you called Malcom, and I assure you that I am most certainly real, Darlin’,” he spoke vehemently as he addressed a few of my questions.

As soon as the last word left his mouth, every inch of my body was immobilized by fear, or maybe it was shock. I truthfully didn’t know what stopped me from moving, but I did know what made me turn to face him. “That name.” I stammered as realization washed over me, “Did you save me?” I asked, tears streaking down my face.

“I did, more than you know.”

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