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“Why are you doing this?” I asked.
He seemed human. He was a man, and yet he hated me. His touch told me he wasn’t planning on being friendly. I understood the rage from the creature. It wanted my light. But I had never hurt this man—how could I have something he wanted? Why did he hate me? His hands were too firm. Each beefy finger was painful, digging into my bones.
He unlocked a door to his left and changed his grip. He tightened his hand around the back of my neck so hard I tried to pull back. He yanked me through the doorway into a small dark room. The concrete floor felt smooth under my feet. The walls were made of the same concrete block, but a small metal table was bolted to the ground in the middle of the room. A single metal chair stood behind the table, also bolted to the concrete.
What am I doing here?
The man forcefully turned my back to him. I heard him fumble with his pants. I could hear the sound of Velcro ripping off.
Oh, no, oh, no, oh, no.
I felt his stout chest at my back.
Nothing good can come from his pants.
I strained against his impenetrable hold and tried to rear back my elbow. I had to get away from this man.
The man moved faster than I did. He stepped to the side before the point of my arm could strike him. Instead, he took out a small blade and cut the plastic at my wrists. In the same motion, he cinched a metal cuff to my right wrist and yanked my hands in front of me. He slid a chain through the loop melded in the table and tightened the cuff on my left wrist.
Oh. That’s a relief.I never thought I’d be thinking being handcuffed would be a relief, but I could’ve sworn he was unzipping his pants. I thought I’d finally figured out what they wanted with me.
I peered up at the man.
He was stocky, but shorter than me by a few inches, dressed in black fatigues. He had sparse black hair that was buzzed short to his scalp. His face, however, was absent of all facial hair. He was probably thirty, if the lines on the sides of his mouth and the creases on his forehead were from age instead of hard living. I didn’t smell cigarette smoke on him, but the fine lines around his lips made me think he was an avid smoker. Or maybe it was another vice aging him.
He met my eyes and frowned. Could he tell what I was thinking? Did he realize I’d thought he was going to rape me?
His face became impassive as he stood with his back to the thick metal door.
He mimicked my movements, tilting his head and examining me like a creature under a microscope.
I felt his eyes rake over my face and down my neck, resting on my chest for multiple breaths before his gaze went to the shackles at my wrists. He breathed in deeply and crossed his arms over his chest, and then leaned more weight against the towering door.
A shiver racked down my spine.
He was waiting. He might be human, but he was more like the creature than I thought possible. I think he liked instilling fear in people, especially in those weaker than him.
My eyes veered away from his thick stare to the walls and then the ceiling. Searching for something. I just wasn’t sure for what.
Until my eyes landed on it.
A small, almost nonexistent, black camera on the far wall, facing me. I didn’t take my eyes from the device. I didn’t want him to see my panic. It wasn’t just him. There were others watching me. Then it all made sense—they were the guns on the ridge.
My stout captor pushed off the wall with a boot and violently slapped his hands onto the center on the metal table, making it vibrate into the ground and into my abused arms.
“Who are you?” the man barked.
I swallowed the bile rising in my throat. My eyes never left the top corner of the ceiling. “You first,” I whispered.
I’d never been so audacious before. I hope I didn’t look as terrified as I felt.
“I was being nice. Giving you the opportunity to introduce yourself, but you don’t have to, Charlotte. I already know a great deal about you.”
They could be lying, but how did they know my name? Maybe they knew what was inside me, what made the light come out. I needed my light. I never thought I’d want it so badly.
“Who am I?” I asked.
“Charlotte Sutton, twenty-seven, anthropological doctoral student, 4.0 GPA, undergraduate and graduate, and now currently in the center of some very disturbing things,” he drawled.
