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The afternoon sun sank into oblivion and night came. I resisted sleep, but I was no match for fatigue and finally succumbed, staring at the meager moonlight shining through the jail cell window before drifting off.
When I awoke, it was still dark, and I had no idea the time. But my bladder was full, screaming to be emptied. I squirmed in discomfort that eventually turned to pain. There was still enough moonlight for me to be able to see the floor of the jail cell. Woozily, I stood, grasping for the wall to steady myself before hastily removing my hand, hoping I hadn’t touched anything disgusting. I padded over to the bucket, unbuttoned my pants, and crouched. It took a few moments for my body to let go, but when it did, I sighed in relief, even as the flies I had disturbed buzzed around me. I bounced a few times, drip drying, and then quickly pulled up my pants. As I plunked down onto the hard ground, I heard the scraping of tiny claws. I shivered, knowing I was sharing my cell with some hungry critter looking for its next meal.
My mind zinged with thoughts. The dull headache pounding at the lower base of my skull and dry mouth from lack of water were enough to make me check out again. I fell back asleep just as the pink rays of day came through the iron bars of the window.
A blast of cold water hit me in the face, causing me to choke and gasp for breath. In a panic, my eyes whipped open. Dante was standing outside my cell, holding a green garden hose with a high-pressure nozzle. A nasty smirk spread across his face. “Good morning, Princess. Sleep well?”
Today, he wore a pair of black trousers and a white silk button-down shirt. He looked freshly shaved, relaxed, like he’d had a good night’s rest.
Dante blasted the hose again, blurring my vision, and ability to reply. Not that I would have. I scrambled back into the corner of the room, attempting to get away from the powerful stream of water. My back met stone as I hit the corner of the jail cell and dried feces that had been sprayed loose, rubbed off on my clothes.
Dante tossed the hose aside and came forward, reaching into his pocket for the skeleton key. The squeaking of the lock was like the ringing of a gong, symbolizing the beginning of my worst nightmare.
“Bruno! Juan! I’m ready,” Dante called.
A moment later, two burly men with dark hair and hands that looked like they could rip grown men into pieces appeared behind Dante. One of them carried a small, wooden folding table. The other an old wooden chair. Dante stepped aside so Bruno and Juan could enter the cell.
Without a look in my direction, the men set the table up. It had two iron cuffs drilled into the top side at one end. A brute stayed, and the other left for a quick minute, only to return carrying a rusted metal toolbox.
Dante chuckled.
He was amused, eager. He gestured with his chin in my direction. A beefy cronie came to me, reached down, and grasped my arm to haul me up. He thrust me toward the chair and forced me to sit. Before I could get my bearings, he was encasing my wrists in the iron shackles, which forced my hands to lay flat against the table.
Like a presentation.
An offering.
“You look tired, Princess,” Dante teased. “Didn’t you sleep well?” He looked around the room like he was seriously studying it. “Did you know this jail has been around since 1862? Oh, if these walls could talk about what they’ve seen over the years.”
He flashed a grin, like we were at a party, and he’d told a humorous joke.
“The rats are fond of this cell in particular. It doesn’t flood like the others when it rains, and sometimes I leave treats for them…”
Bruno and Juan moved to stand behind their boss, their eyes staring straight ahead. They didn’t look directly at me, either because they didn’t want to or because they chose to. Whatever I was to them didn’t matter—I knew they would enforce Dante’s will.
Dante began to whistle a happy sounding tune as he pulled the metal box toward him. He opened the top, but my view was marred, and I couldn’t see what was inside.
And then he slowly began to remove tools from the box and set them down on the table.
A screwdriver, a hammer, a mallet, a hand saw.
I whimpered.
Dante looked up, a feral light entering his dark eyes. This man enjoyed the pain of others. He feasted on their terror.
He looked down, and with one finger, he traced the fingers of my right hand, skimming his thumb across my knuckles.
I curled my hand into a fist, which only made him laugh.
“Such lovely hands,” he murmured. “You’re a doctor, yes?”
My heart became a band of galloping broncos racing across the desert. My pulse drummed like hoofbeats on sand and stone.
“Bruno,” he snapped.
Bruno moved from his spot by the cell gate and came to the table. With thick, sausage like fingers, he pried my fist open, so my palm lay flat against the table.
Naked, unprotected.
