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“Cage,” I say.
She blinks a couple of times and then sighs. “Fuck …”
She sits up on the bed with her head still hanging low, and she scrunches up her face. “God, I feel fucked up.”
“It’s the drugs,” I say.
She nods and tries to get up. Her body is still weak, so she collapses on the floor. “Fuck!”
She swears a lot more than …
Just thinking about the girl makes me clutch my bed and make a fist with my hand. I wish I could get her back, but I can’t.
“Food?” she asks.
“In the box,” I reply.
She immediately gets up to grasp it before quickly sitting down on her bed. I can tell she doesn’t want to stay on her feet too long because she keeps pulling them back up on the bed.
She tears off the wrapper and munches on a sandwich, practically stuffing her face with it. “God, I can’t believe I could ever love a peanut butter and jelly sandwich this much.”
Only when she turns my way can I finally see what happened to her feet. They’re completely red and covered in sores.
“What happened?” I ask, getting closer to her side of the glass.
After swallowing the last bit of her meal, she takes in a deep breath. “Pain, that’s what happened.”
“How?”
She sighs. “I had to dance. Day and night. They wouldn’t let me stop.”
Dancing, a whole day long? I don’t even do my workouts for an entire day; I’d be too worn out. Yet she’s been up on her feet the entire time. No wonder she’s hesitant about using them.
Water fills her eyes, and she wipes them away with her thumb.
“I’m sorry,” I say.
“Don’t be,” she says. “It’s not your fault I’m in here.”
I swallow and look away, wondering what I can do to help. But that’s just the thing. I can’t do anything. I can only sit and wait out our time.
So I walk back to my bed and sit down to stare at the door he disappeared through with the girl.
A few minutes pass, and suddenly, a voice reminds me I’m not alone. “What are you doing?”
“Looking at the door,” I reply.
“What for?”
“Waiting for her.”
“Who?” The pitch of her voice changed, and I know exactly why.
She doesn’t know yet that we’re not alone anymore. “The new girl.”
Chapter Seven
Accompanying Song: “Everybody Gets High” by Missio (Acoustic)
Ella
When I come to, my head feels like it’s exploding. I feel so drowsy, and when I try to open my eyes, everything is blurry. I shake my head to try to make it go away, but it doesn’t work.
Crap.
“Stay still …”
That voice brings chills to my body.
It’s Graham, but I can barely make out his figure hovering over me.
“This’ll only take a few seconds.” He’s so close to me right now, yet I have no idea what he’s doing.
It’s freaking me out to the point that I want to flail just to get him off me.
Except when I try to move my hands, they won’t budge. I’m stuck … literally. He bound me to the wheelchair with restraints. My legs too. I can’t move.
Oh, God.
“I said stay still,” he growls, putting his filthy hands on my wrists. “You’ll hurt yourself if you don’t.”
I don’t listen. I have to get out. I have to free myself. I don’t know what he’s doing to me, but I can’t let it go on. So I fight with every bit of strength I can muster.
“Stupid girl,” he growls.
The binds around my wrists and feet tighten again to the point they’re painful.
My lips part, but no sound comes out. I can’t form the words in my mouth even though I try so hard to speak. To scream.
“I told you to stop moving so much,” he says. “Are we going to behave or not?”
My vision is getting better already, and I can clearly make out his hand as it comes closer. He’s holding a needle.
“If you’re going to resist again, I’m going to have to put you under. Do you want me to do that? Hmm?”
I shake my head.
“No?” The needle comes dangerously close to my skin.
I beg with just my eyes, desperately wanting to escape.
When I look at him, I can see the fire dancing in his eyes. The excitement at seeing my pleading face. And the wretched smile that appears a few seconds after.
“Good. Now hold still and be a good girl.”
He places the syringe down on a desk, and I calm down a little. While he’s not touching me, I quickly scan the room. It looks like a small office. There’s a desk, a cabinet, a bookcase, and even a computer. Is this where he spends most of his time?
Graham grabs a bottle of liquid from the desk, so I raise my brows and stare at it.
“Alcohol.” He pours it on a cotton pad and says, “This’ll sting a little.”
