Page 1 of Ripple Effect, Vol. 2

1

Dylan

Drip. Drip. Drip.

My mind fights the all-consuming blackness closing in on me as I lay on the thin mattress whose springs poke into my back. The beams above me shiver with dust that falls on my face every time he walks overhead. Chains beat against the cement wall I’m tethered to with every tremble that wracks my body.

Drip. Drip. Drip.

Somewhere water leaks an incessant pounding in my skull, and I count every drop. Six hundred thirty-eight. Six hundred thirty-nine. Six hundred forty. A cold, moldy scent invades my nose, and the cough that rattles my chest turns into a gag, staving off the impending black hole I’m being sucked inside.

He stole my pills, and what feels like shards of broken glass rolling inside of my stomach keep me from falling asleep. Not that I want to sleep. Not that I could. But I need to, because the pain is too much. It claws my insides like a beast, desperate for escape, demanding more of the sweet venom, the nothingness that keeps it tucked deep inside of me. Muscle spasms create a line of tension through my body, so taut, I feel like my limbs will snap away.

“Help me! Fucking help me!” My words bounce back at me from the walls, all hoarse and scratchy as though I’ve been screaming for days. Have I? I’ve blacked out a few times, only to wake to that dripping noise and the incessant pain.

I’m sweating in spite of the frigid tendrils that snake beneath my skin like frost crystals. My body shivers and sickness twists my insides into a nauseating roil, threatening to climb my throat any second.

I need my pills.

“Please!” I turn my head in time to expel the bile shooting up my throat. Fire trails behind it as the acids burn my nostrils with another heave. Over and over, I choke, head slung awkwardly to the side as the fluids leak down my cheek. A coughing fit steals my next breath and another round of bile splashes onto the floor somewhere beside me.

An ache throbs in my skull as I lay back onto the bed and the churning in my stomach intensifies. The sensation of bugs scampering across my arms jerks my muscles, and I shiver at the crawling of my skin. I cry out, kicking against my binds. “Get off of me! Get off!” It doesn’t go away, though. It intensifies, a nightmare come to life, and I’m certain there are spider legs beating against my flesh, digging, attempting to burrow themselves into my bones. “Get off of me! Oh God, get them off of me!”

Urgency tugs at my gut. I need to use the bathroom more than I ever have and the panic sends me kicking and screaming. Bloating in my stomach balloons and the pressure to release has me arching up off the mattress. No, no, no. Please not this.

I’m going to soil the goddamn bed and be forced to sleep in my own filth.

Everything flicks to blackness.

In dreams, I’m carried into a bathroom, my whole body quaking and jerking. I want to get away, but comfort blankets me in the warmth of the stranger’s arms and the heat of his skin as I lay against his solid chest. A harsh and blinding light beats down on me. Focusing through the glare, I stare at a set of angel wings inked across his chest and a crisp orange scent that is both delicious and nauseating overwhelms my senses. My stomach feels light when he sets me down and the heat washes over me in waves of bliss. Soft cotton trails down my temple as he wipes a washcloth over my face.

He pushes the wet strands of hair from my eyes, and my breathing calms, as I stare into the multi-colored eyes of a monster.

* * *

My lids flip open on a gasp of breath and the surrounding darkness swallows me. I’m tugging on my binds before I even realize they won’t give. I’m screaming and cursing, but as if my head is under water, I can’t make out the words I’ve said.

Pain.

I’ve known pain most of my life. From the unforgiving fist of my foster father, to the sick amusement of Randy pushing something inside of me. But this is different. Every other time, I had an escape, a place inside my mind where the physical torment couldn’t reach me. Walls without windows, where there was silence and numbness. My mind is as much a prison as the cement walls to which I’m chained.

The darkness filters in from the edges and shrinks the scene to a pinprick, before everything, including the pain, fades away.

* * *

I open my eyes to the sting of sterile scents, like disinfectant and alcohol. A quick scan of my surroundings shows crisp white sheets, the cool fabric brushing against my legs—my bare legs. The dripping of water from before pounds louder, without the chasing echo. Scents. Sounds. Touch. As if my body has tuned into a sharper frequency, everything around me seems more alive. More intense.

Attached to my left arm is an IV whose tube connects to a bag labeled saline, hanging off a hook sticking out from the wall. Two white patches are stuck to my arm, and I can’t begin to imagine what the hell they are. Maybe he mutilated me? What the hell is this guy, a doctor?

The stabbing pain from before has dulled to an ache of intense hunger or the craving of pills, I can’t discern. Nausea still grips me the same way it had when I drank too much cinnamon liquor one night and ended up at the side of the toilet with my sugar crashing. I’m not a diabetic or anything, but I remember Chanel gave me a glass of orange soda and the jitters disappeared. I feel cool and sweaty at the same time, clammy and exhausted.

I stare down at myself, noticing a thin white shirt. My bra has been removed along with my panties, leaving me naked beneath the oversized garment that must belong to my captor. The heavy comforter, far too elegant and plush for the mattress on which I’m lying, covers only my ankles, as if I’d kicked it off. Or someone else had.

What did he do while I was out?

I perform a quick mental rundown, only remembering flashes of the bathtub, which I’m certain was nothing but a dream. From my fingers to my toes, I concentrate on any pain. Wriggling my toes doesn’t point out a weird absence of one, flexing my calves, thighs, nothing. I attempt to pull my knees together, testing whether or not it produces an ache that might suggest he’d raped me, but chains keep me from crossing my legs.

In my pathetic assessment, I find there’s no damage, nothing to suggest mutilation of any sort. And no evidence of blood on the sheets.