Page 65 of Ethereally Tainted

Other people’s opinions about me never do.

It seems like an eternity before the guards finally lead us out of wing three and into the reception area, which is devoid of any other people. No sight of either Naya or my friends, nothing to stop these guards from taking me to a place I don’t know. The guards led me toward a staircase some distance from the reception, but if there had been an appointment with Dr. Lewis, we would have turned off at wing four and continued straight ahead. This staircase slopes diagonally downwards, with metal bars around it that can be held onto for support while walking down.

“Where are you taking me?” My tone is full of accusations.

“Shut the fuck up,” one of them grunts, tightening the hold on my arm and making me hiss.

The guards open a heavy metal door with multiple locks. When it slides open, a loud sound is heard, and a gust of wind touches my bare arms, sending a chill through me. I’m immediately greeted by a bare, narrow corridor whose walls are made of white clinker that looks as if it will peel away any day. The corridor has been neglected for a long time, that’s for certain. In this narrow corridor, drain pipes run along the walls and go all the way to the ceiling, which gives me a creepy sensation.

The bald guard takes the first step into the corridor, and when I don’t immediately follow, the other guard pushes me forward impatiently. I stumble for a second before quickly catching my balance again, looking straight ahead. It would have been so easy for me to get hold of his gun now, shoot them both in the head, revel in the stickiness of their blood, and then take off and run away from this hellish situation. The truth is that I would have certainly done it if my hands hadn’t been stuck in a pair of handcuffs that fit far too tight, pressing into my skin like blades. In this cold corridor, there are no signs of warmth, it feels like one would find in a basement, and I shudder at the thought of beingthere.

Bloodied hands.

A knife in his hands.

He tries to plunge it into my abdomen.

I overpower him, taking his life.

It takes everything in me not to rip the cuffs from my wrists and slay the guards, any action to remove the horrible image in my mind of yet another memory that I wish to bury deep down in my subconscious. Even further down than six feet under. It is a memory that doesn’t deserve to surface. My past should be just that, a past. The past is the past and will continue to be so for all eternity.

I try to focus on anything else as I inhale and exhale, feeling my nerves rise at the thought of being in a basement again, considering my last experience wasn’t the best. For years, my brother and I were living on the streets in an environment filled with drug and alcohol addicts, and one of them ended up lashing out at us for trying out his drugs. He offered them for free but then expected us to pay. I should have known better. I still remember the utter relief I felt surging through my bones as I watched the life drain from his eyes. Both a feeling of satisfaction but also relief from having survived.

I push away the memory clogging my mind and instead think about Naya. She makes me crave her in ways I’ve never craved another woman before. I don’t only want her for my own enjoyment and pleasure, I want her for my soul. I know I’m playing a dangerous game with Naya, but something about her is so alluring and thrilling. No strings attached, and that is how it should be. That is the only way to survive. But fuck me if she isn’t hot. I wonder how it would feel to drive myself inside of her, and hear her pretty moans I heard when I fingered her. Hear her moans of pleasure as I subject her to pain.

Oh, how sweet that would be.

The fantasy quickly flees my mind as I almost walk into the guard in front of me after he stops so abruptly. We find ourselves at the very end of this lengthy and slender corridor, with a door facing us. I swallow down my nerves, feeling my skin tingle with the sensation of not knowing what’s behind those doors.

“Ready?” the guard behind me grumbles, a tinge of amusement gracing his words as if this is funny to him.

Once again, I wish my hands weren’t stuck in the handcuffs. The guard in front of me jerks the door open before pushing me into the room and closing the door behind me with a loud thud. The space is empty except for a table and a chair on each side, which are in the middle of the room. Above the table dangles a lamp, swaying back and forth as if by an unknown force as it flickers, nearly losing the light it has. There is no one else in the room but me, and I turn to face the door, but it’s already locked.

Shit.

I shiver in the room; the walls and floor are made of cold, unforgiving stone material, making it feel like I’m in the middle of a cold winter night. I cautiously lower myself into one of the chairs, my eyes glued to the door to see if anyone enters. I won’t take the chance of someone sneaking up on me. No way. My hands are still stuck in a pair of handcuffs, which is annoying. They are both too tightly secured, giving me no access to move freely.

There are no windows in the room or clock to indicate what time it is or how long I have been sitting here. But when my legs start to stiffen, and it starts to be uncomfortable to sit down, I know it’s been at least half an hour, and boredom starts to take over.

What the hell am I even doing here?

It doesn’t make sense why the guards would come for me only to leave me in a room without explanation. I’m rapidly losing my patience, and a wave of agitation crawls up my spine.

Suddenly, a faint click is heard, and the door smoothly slides open.

I make myself appear bored, a mask I have worn so many times now where only ice and coldness fill my features, letting the opponent know I’m completely unburdened. In reality, my insides are on fire because the rage at seeing the man who enters is enough for me to crave to see his blood cover me. He enters the room with his typical attire, a suit that, while seemingly new, is one of many he owns that all look the same. His pace is slow and steady, as if he has eternity to spare, and that only furthers my vexation.

“Well, well, Mr. Madden,” Emilio Ricci says.

I have to resist gritting my teeth and instead stare at him with an emotionless expression, not bothering to acknowledge him. He sits on the chair opposite, placing his hands on the table before leaning back in a relaxed posture.

“How are you?”

I know the question is not genuine. He doesn’t care, and he never has. He only asks and then expects the answer to be good, and I don’t even bother replying to him. I see how he leans forward again on the table, his elbows placed on the edge as his chin rests in his palms.

“Manners, young boy.”

Take a deep breath, I remind myself, fighting the urge to strangle him with my handcuffs. I’m sure that if I tried hard enough, I would manage to turn his face into a beautiful color of blue and purple. That thought is the only thing that keeps me going, focusing on the way he acts and the things he says just so I can get this over with.

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