Page 35 of Taking

Still cold as hell and shivering in my wet shirt.

I managed to crawl to the bed, curling up into a ball and burying myself beneath the lone blanket.

Without strength. Hopeless.

Tears slid down my cheeks, wetting the mattress beneath me, and I didn’t bother wiping them away. Hollowness swelled inside my chest.

I slept and woke warmer, my T-shirt dry.

Starved.

Darkness still coated the bedroom, and I shifted to sit on the mattress’s edge. The scent of something savory filled my nose.

Stomach growling, I pushed up to stand and felt my way around the room to the chair.

A new tray.

I downed the bowl of tepid stew.

Once finished, I crept toward the door. No noise rose from beyond, but I banged against it anyway.

“I have to pee!”

Nothing.

I repeated myself a half-dozen times, letting out curses as the minutes slowly ticked by.

He’d left me in the dark—and I located the metal bowl he’d tossed into the room with me. Having no choice, I settled it into the corner farthest from the bed and relieved myself in the old-fashioned bedpan.

At least the asshole gave me napkins with the stew so I had something to wipe myself.

I shuffled back to the bed. Curled up. Gave into despondency, into the hopelessness settling into my brain and on my shoulders.

* * *

Minutes, hours passed.

Six meals came and went between bouts of lucidity. Two longer durations of sleep.

Two days of darkness with nothing but my increasingly depressing thoughts to keep me company. I scraped all the dried cum from my torso. Ran my fingers through my ratty hair, thankful for its shorter length. I used one of the cups of water he left me to at least dribble over the apex of my thighs into the chamber pot.

Every time I woke, I knew he’d been in the room. Fresh water and fresh food awaited me. He emptied my bedpan.

He definitely had night vision on that camera up in the corner, I didn’t doubt.

I sat and rocked on the bed, rubbing my arms. I’d gotten used to staring into darkness, counting until I lost track of the numbers. Sang every song I could remember. Recited every fable and fairy tale from my childhood still alive in my brain.

I relived my favorite movies from start to finish, taking care not to rush the action of each scene. Even Stolen, my old favorite stalker Stockholm Syndrome movie Jenny and I had loved back in high school.

Not so alluring or hot now that I experienced that shit firsthand.

I paced from wall to wall, avoiding my bedpan whenever it needed emptying.

But I refused to break down and bang on the door or beg and plead. My captor was beneath me—and I wouldn’t allow him to feel otherwise.

He never opened the door while I was awake.

Eventually, I lay on the bed, limp and uncaring. My backbone had almost reached its end—but at least he hadn’t broken my mind. I found myself wishing Lloyd would show up so the monotony would stop eating away at my brain. Hollowness deepened in my chest like I’d never known, accompanied by a slower pulse, shallower breathing.

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