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Was it only one day? It felt like freaking eternity.
A longer period will kill me for sure. That is if he doesn’t do it physically.
“I-I’m sorry.” My arms wrap around myself. I’m a coward, I admit it. But cowardice is better than being thrust into that nightmare.
He removes his hand from his trousers. My gaze follows a shiny silver-coloured ring on his index finger as if charmed. There’s a black crest-like design carved on top of it in a shape of two black panthers. The unique symbol is both beautiful and terrifying— like the one wearing it. Was it there the entire time?
“What is it?” Aaron asks in a relaxed tone. It’s then I notice that he’s holding a phone to his ear.
Chance!
I open my mouth to shout for help. I meet his stare and clamp my lips shut.
He listens to whoever is on the other line, piercing me with a dark glint and an arched brow.
He wants me to do this, which means that it won’t end well for me.
I dig my nails into the mattress.
His lips move into a sardonic smile. Something tells me it’s not because of the phone call.
Sadist, sick bastard.
“Yes, continue,” he says on the phone before nodding to the corner of the room.
Before I can see what he motioned at, Aaron leaves with the phone to his ear. The door clicks shut behind him.
I follow the direction of his gesture. Folded clothes, slippers, a blanket, a plate of food, and a bottle of water sit nestled in the corner.
I’m not grateful. I am not!
. . . . .
A sigh of contentment leaves my lips before I can stop it.
I never thought a shower and warm clothes could become such an extravagance.
I fold the trousers to my breasts but it still swallows my feet. The pullover is also three sizes too big, serving more like a mini robe. The jacket is even worse.
I must look like a clown.
Yet, these clothes are a lot comfier than my non-existent dress.
The cloth is soft as if they’re fresh from the dryer. There’s also the faint familiar cedar scent that indicates whom the clothes belong to.
I refuse to consider it kindness. He kidnapped me. Nothing can redeem that.
Sitting cross-legged on the bed, I pull the plate of food close. The soup is already cold, but the contorting in my stomach suggests I eat whatever is available.
The first sip comes with a tear down my cheek and a rush of memories of warm meals with my parents and friends.
I miss them. So much. It hurts.
How are they doing right now? The news of my disappearance must’ve reached them. The image of their sadness and possible tears makes mine flood my face.
The second sip causes my lips to tremble. My teeth clink against the spoon as more tears soak my cheeks like a downpour. I give up on the spoon and drink the bowl of soup in one go. The cold liquid tastes like salt due to mixing with my tears.
Is this my life now? Loneliness and cold soup?
