Page 13 of Blood Spilled
I can't win in this game, can I?
One minute I feel I'm heading toward the finish line and the next I'm sulking my way back to start. Kicking the cage, I dig my nails into my arms to get rid of the last remnants of the wonderful high he left me with. It's clouding my better judgment. It's easy to cling to anything my body sees as good after it's been through so much abuse. I can't continue to let that part of me take over.
Remember who you are. Santiago fucking Moreno. I'm not Angel's pet or mouse. I'm not anyone's anything. I have to be my own person more than ever now. I can't go from being one man’s puppet to another's pet. I can't. I won't. I doze off after keeping my eyes closed for what feels like forever and when the door opens again, someone other than Angel enters, carrying a plate with a medium rare steak and mashed potatoes.
My mouth salivates as he walks closer, the delicious aroma wafting in the air. “Dinner time. You slept through breakfast and lunch.”
As soon as the paper plate touches the floor, I drag my knees quickly across the metal and over the wooden floor.
“I'll leave you to it then,” he says, exiting the room.
I shift my attention back on the food and attack it with my fingers. Shoveling the potatoes in my mouth, I lower my face closer to the ground. Nothing's ever tasted so damn good. I ignore the ache in my throat and keep eating until there's nothing left but the drippings on the plate. I lick up all the gravy and sauce until the plate is wiped clean.
More time goes by of me sitting in the cold, dark room before the door opens again. A different man walks in and he hands me a bottle of water.
“Where are my books?”
“What books?” The man tilts his head, his face hard to read when the only light in the room is what's coming from the hallway.
“I'm supposed to get books,” I shout. “Where the fuck are they?”
“I was only told to bring you water so that's what I did. If you want anything else, you'll have to take it up with Angel, not me.”
“Fuck you,” I spit. “Fuck him. I knew he'd do this.”
“That's enough out of you.” Lowering his face to mine, he takes out a knife and shoves the tip to my throat. “Keep going and see what happens.”
I spit in his eyes and as he wipes them clean, I grab the knife. Before I can twist the blade into his leg, a gun is being pressed to my head. “Fucking drop it and go back into your cage.”
“No.”
His breathing picks up and I hear a clique. The safety is off. “Do what I say or I'll make you do it.’
“Go to hell.”
“After you.” He whacks me in the face with the side of the gun and my jaw throbs as the taste of metal fills my mouth.
As I'm lifting myself back up, he hits me again, this time plunging into the side of my head so hard, I nearly black out. He takes the knife from my hand and kicks me to my back, the top half of my body landing in the cage. “Keep trying me pendejo and you'll be worse off than how you were when you arrived.” He sends a kick into my side and I curl into myself, fighting back tears. The pain is too overwhelming. I feel it everywhere. Where's Angel? Why'd he leave me with this fucker. Never did I think I'd prefer him to anyone else but here we fucking are.
I shut my eyes, not opening even when the door slams closed. I hug myself tighter, staying where I am until sleep hits me again.
I jolt awake to the sound of the door twisting open. It takes a while for my eyes to adjust to the bright lights of the room. “That big meal must've really tired you out.”
That amongst other things. Holding onto the cage bars behind me, I shit up, dragging my body forward. He sets a book in front of me with no jacket or title on the front. The cover is dark brown and what looks to be soft leather. I don't ask what it is and instead great fully pull to my chest, holding it like I have the whole word in my hands.
“Thank you.”
“You're welcome, little mouse.” He strokes my cheek and I close my eyes, enjoying his cold palm against my aching cheek. How is it he keeps being what I need when I need it. It's a new kind of torture. He's warm when I can't stand the cold any longer and the perfect substitute for a cold compress when I'm aching and bruising. Is he doing it on purpose? That's crazy to think he'd take all this time out of his day to plan things accordingly. Isn't it?
“What did you do to your face? Hurting yourself now? I don't need you doing that. That's my job, remember. Only when you need it and it's hard to know if you have since I've been gone for two days.” He rubs a thumb over my swollen skin and then removes something from his back pocket.
It's a cold water bottle. I flinch when he presses it to my face and it's more harsh than his hand, the ice in the water stabbingat my skin through the thin plastic. “That should help the swelling some.”
“Does he really not know what happened? Is he not always watching his precious cameras? Do his men not report to him? I won't say anything, if they haven't. What's the point? He’ll keep sending them in here anyway. They'll still have more freedom and luxuries than I ever will. Telling him what happened could be worse for me than them since I acted out.
He runs a hand through my hair, twisting his lips. “You have a little blood in your scalp. We'll have to get you washed up today. I'll get a bucket of warm water and soap. Go ahead and keep yourself busy with your new book.”
As soon as he leaves the room, I open the book, flipping through the pages and quickly closing it when each one is riddled with Bible verses. This is the book he brought me. This was what I earned? Clenching my jaw, I toss the book against the door. Fucking asshole. I wasn't specific was I? I'm slowly learning that I need to be with him.
