Page 14 of Love Set Free

Phoenix

Consciousness is a strange thing. One moment you’re not, and then…you are.

My stomach rolls as I emerge from my blackout. Again. I know it’s again because I can taste the lingering trace of vomit in my mouth, can smell the noxious smell of puke, and feel it splattered, wet, heavy, and soaking into my shirt.

I must’ve vomited just before or after I passed out. Or even while I was passing out. Knowing it happened doesn’t mean I’m aware of the sequence of when it happened. I suppose it’s a good thing that, as of right now, I must be worth more to my kidnappers alive than dead as they hadn’t let me suffocate on my own puke.

My head feels woozy and everything feels out of whack. Sounds reach me—voices, movement, furniture scraping on the floor. Thumps and grunts. But the sounds are coming in and out of focus, sometimes sharp and clear and sometimes muffled as though I’m hearing them through an ocean’s worth of water.

The low rumble of words I don’t understand are followed by the sharp, cold tones that I recognize as coming from Blond Guy.“I am aware that this building has no running water. It didn’t have any running water yesterday, or the day before, or any of the other days before that.”

More words I don’t catch are followed by another response from Blond Guy. And I’m grateful that I’m not the one on the receiving end of his ire. It’s like the hotter his temper flares, the colder his voice gets, until you could practically serve a gin and tonic over the ice cubes dripping from his tone.

“This building was carefully chosen because it’s one of many in this area. Abandoned, ignored, barely habitable. Anonymous and completely camouflaged by its very ordinariness and similarity to each and every other shitty, falling down structure in this shitty, falling down section of town. So, why are you complaining to me that there’s no running water and how difficult that makes your task of cleaning up the mess of our valuable guest? Does it appear as though I care?”

“If Silva thinks he’s too important to go fetch a couple buckets of water from down the block, then I can always go.”

I don’t recognize this voice, although the process of elimination tells me it’s probably the third man in my kidnapping quartet. The one whose tattoos are the only thing making his average, All-American looks at all distinctive. Now that I’ve heard it, his voice matches his appearance. It has that even, nearly accentless quality to it that’s common to those who grew up somewhere in the vast middle of the U.S.

But while his words sounded helpful and friendly on the surface, the expression on his face must not have matched. Or else this Silva knew better than to take his words at face value, because he hurriedly stammered out a protest.

“Não, não. I...I go. You... Não precisa. Stay. I go.”

And holy shit. Whether or not that’s a real name, one of them slipped and called the other by an actual name. Silva... Silva. I repeat the name silently to myself several times, hoping that it’llstick in my brain. As fuzzy as it feels right now, I’m only giving myself even odds.

At least... Jesus, I hope I was only saying it to myself and not actually muttering it out loud. But I must have done something, made some sort of noise, because suddenly the unwelcome attention of Blond Guy turned to me.

“Well, well, well. I must say, that was incredibly stupid, Mister Wilding. And pointless.” His observation is said in a calm, factual manner.

And I can’t help but agree. Had I expected that they’d respect my refusal? It didn’t matter what I did or didn’t say. I, and probably everyone else in this room, am more than aware that I’m going to wind up doing exactly what the kidnappers want me to do.

Besides, it isn’t as though Dad would expect me tonotcooperate with them. Not at all. My father is the first person to ever tell me that money is only good if you are doing something good with it. That money has no inherent value in just sitting around, looking pretty and green and collecting dust as it lies in a vault somewhere.

Whatever amount it is that the kidnappers asked my father for, he’d readily hand over to them. Hell, he’d probably voluntarily throw in some extra if it meant he got me back safe and sound. And not just because I’m his only son, the de facto inheritor of his legacy. No. Dad would pay up any and all of his accumulated wealth because he loved me. Because to him, money would never, ever come close to the value of a human life.

It’s probably Dad’s inherent selflessness and lack of concern for his wealth that caused that knee-jerk reaction of denial. I feel a fierce need to protect him from people who are out to take advantage of him and…I’m not entirely sure I deserve Dad’s love and willingness to do anything for me. I’m not convincedthat I’m worth whatever stupid amount I’m about to cost him in ransom.

Because what is it, exactly, that I give back to him in return?

“But I am a generous and forgiving man.” My brain might not be completely back to firing on all cylinders, but at least I have the good sense–and lack of death wish–to not laugh at that horrendous statement from Blond Guy. “We will try this again and this time I’m sure you will do as you’ve been instructed.”

It’s not a question and I don’t treat it as such. I just feebly nod my head. The surface of the table it’s resting on is faintly slick with...with... My stomach rolls again as my asshole brain helpfully supplies what the tabletop is probably slick with. My sweat. My tears. My...blood.

“Come now, Mueller. It’s not like the boy doesn’t have nine more fingers you can play with if he decided to continue being stupid and spoiled.”

I can’t...I can’t even... There’s not even enough time for glee to take hold that yet another kidnapper–the woman, this time–let slip another name for me to file away in my mental banks to hand over to the cops at some point. I’m too busy processing the implications of what she said. And the flash of memory it prompts. Those moments that led to... The moments just before...before the world went horrible and dark on me.

My head feels like it weighs a ton and my neck trembles as I slowly pick it up off the table. Bile creeps up my throat and dribbles out of my mouth in syrupy strings when my eyes focus on my hand. My poor, poor hand, lying on top of the table.

The tip of the knife is still embedded into it and my hand is still resting where it had been before I’d passed out. Spatters of blood freckle my fingers and the back of my hand and there is a small pool spreading around my hand and the knife. And on the far side of the knife, there’s the small, severed tip of my left hand’s middle finger.

Huh. Good thing I tend to flip people off with my right hand.

“Hmm.” The humming sound Blond Guy makes isn’t an agreement with what Could’ve Been a Model said, but it sure as hell isn’t a denial either. “Speaking of...”

They’ve slipped and called Blond Guy Mueller a few times, but there’s no way for me to know if that’s his real name. Probably not. For all I know, during their next kidnapping, Blond Guy will go by the name Bilbo Baggins and Silva will be Frodo. So, while I’ll retain the information to give to the police, I’m not going to worry too much about what aliases they’re currently using.

The soles of Blond Guy’s shoes whisper and shush quietly along the cement floor as he approaches where I’m weakly hunched over in my chair. My eyes flick up to watch him, feeling an instinctual urge to keep sight of the danger he posed. Besides, looking at the bloody mess of my hand isn’t helping settle my stomach. His own eyes are trained on me, not a flicker of remorse or compassion on his face, even as he addresses one of his partners-in-crime.

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