Page 82 of Doesn't Count

“No, no. I didn’t think it would be that easy, though I thought I would give it a try. Well, won’t this be quite the challenge?” He snickers to himself. “Bordeaux, take him downstairs. Let him think about what I've asked. Maybe some solitude might help him find an answer.”

Thick fingers wrap around my arm, pulling me to my feet. My eyes widen at the realization that I’m not going home, worse yet, I’m being dragged further into this nightmare.

“No! Please! Let me go!” I scream, throwing myself to the ground, hoping my dead weight is too much for him.

It’s not.

The soles of my shoes squeak against the tile as Bordeaux tugs me with ease. When we meet the stairs, I finally force myself to use my legs again, afraid that the concrete will cause permanent damage that may never get fixed.

The air down here is thick with moisture, a dampness clinging to the cold walls. It’s just a concrete box, a dungeon with one lone naked light bulb in the center of the ceiling. To the far wall, across from the stairs is a twin mattress, stripped of any sheets or blankets. To the wall left of that hangs two metal chains with wrist cuffs, a rustic smear on the ground below. They taunt me, I can practically hear the sound of metal onconcrete as if they’re clanking together. The only other things in this room are a metal bucket and a cheap, white wooden chair facing the shackles.

A violent shutter courses through me, vomit threatening to erupt like a fire hose. I try to swallow past it, the thought of having to live with puke everywhere motivating enough to hold it in.

Bordeaux shoves me down, purposely missing the mattress. My head bounces off the concrete with a sickening thud, my vision clouds with pain. Flipping me to my stomach, he unties my wrists, my shoulders aching when they’re finally released. I don’t dare move though; too afraid he’s going to kill me.

“Welcome home.” He chuckles.

I remain still, waiting on a bated breath until I can hear his heavy steps clamber up the stairs. It isn’t until then that I finally let out a terrified sob.

Days blur by one after another. Each day,Fatherdescends the concrete steps in his red cloak, seating himself in the white chair. Each day, I huddle in the corner, away from him.

I can’t remember if this is day three or four, but my stomach is so empty it’s starting to eat itself. My organ screams at me, begging for substance, only I have been given nothing. My lips crack, the skin flaking and peeling away, water only coming once a day in the hands of Satan’s preacher.

My muscles are weak, and I’m exhausted. I’ve gotten to the point where I don’t know why I’m even fighting anymore.

“Are you ready to accept Satan as your master?” He asks me again, sliding the small plastic cup of water my way.

With shaky hands, I snatch it, desperate to quench thisunbearable thirst. There’s not an ounce of my mind that wants to give in to him, but my body and my will to survive is shaking me into submission.

I glare, mustering up as much hatred as I possibly can, but it doesn’t rattle him in the slightest.

“You must be starving, child. I have a nice juicy sirloin upstairs for you. Steaming, hot mashed potatoes. You could be up there right now eating with your new family.” He croons, painting a picture I could die for.

If I had any moisture left in my mouth, I would salivate at the thought of food. My stomach grumbles loudly, giving me away.

He smirks, “Listen to your body, boy. It’s not healthy to starve yourself.”

My lips quiver, the words sitting at the edge of my tongue. He tilts his head up waiting for me to relent, but... I can’t. He sighs even though my lack of response affects him like stars shining in the daylight.

“Suit yourself.” He places his hands on his knees before pushing himself to his feet.

He spins, walking back towards the stairs, my brain lagging, but finally catching up.

“Wait!” I croak.

He pauses before turning back to me, allowing me to speak.

I swallow, the air burning my throat. “Yes, I accept Satan as my master.”

A sickening smile slices across his wrinkled face revealing long, grey teeth.

“Good boy. Bordeaux will be down with some food.”

“Don’t I get to come upstairs?” I panic.

“Yes, soon.” He promises. “Your words mean very little to our Master, it’s your actions that prove your worth accepting.”

“I don’t understand.” My words wobble on a wave of tears.

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