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Romy
Minutes, hours, days. How long does it take to lose your mind?
I don’t know how long I’ve been in the dark, but I know it’s consuming me. I’m drowning in black, and for the life of me, I can’t force my mind to escape. My body won’t relax; my imagination won’t penetrate the ceiling and lift me up through the clouds. I’ve lost the skill, and I know soon I’ll also lose the person who taught it to me.
The silence is worse than the darkness. It leaves a wide, cavernous space for thoughts to race around in. And every creak sounds like footsteps, every passing breeze sounds like a whispered question:
Is Donnacha going to kill me?
Will Belsky then kill Mak?
Is it possible to love somebody, even though your entire relationship is built on doing cruel things to each other?
The paranoia builds up and up and up until I can’t take it, and I scream into the void. The darkness screams back at me. When my throat is hoarse and my lungs are burning, I fumble to a corner, curl up into a ball, and lie there.
Rinse and repeat for god knows how long.
I have my head between my knees when a bright light suddenly floods the room. It scorches my retinas and makes me recoil, and when the red and purple spots finally fade from my vision, I’m horrified by what the light has revealed.
Mak.
Two guards I don’t recognize drag him through the door. He’s writhing against a chair with a bloodied gag in his mouth. When he sees me, he lets out a muffled moan, eyes growing wider.
I don’t know if it’s my mind playing tricks on me, but I don’t wait to find out. Stumbling to my feet, I rush over and fling my arms around him before those assholes can stop me. Despite the sweat and the dirt caking his hair and skin, the ghost of his familiar scent fills my nostrils. He smells like home.
For the first time since I’ve been locked in here, I want to cry.
“Mak!” I rasp, squeezing his neck like I have no intention of ever letting go. “Are you okay? Did they hurt you?”
The air in the room changes. I can feel it charge my skin and see it in the way the guards suddenly straighten their spines.
Looking up, I lock eyes with the Devil in the doorway.
He saunters in, drags a knuckle through his beard, and says wearily, “How much would you scream for me if I killed your best friend, Romy?”
Ice trickles through my veins. “Please.”
It’s crazy; a month ago, I’d have rather slit my goddamn throat than beg. Now look at me, melting to my knees, like the Devil always wanted.
He didn’t break me. He chiseled away at me, piece by piece, until nothing of substance remained.
He strolls over, yanks me to my feet, and holds me there. My tears distort the hard lines of his face, but there’s no mistaking the fire licking the walls of his irises.
Without warning, he rips himself from me like a Band-Aid as if he can’t bear to be near me for a second longer.
I don’t blame him.
He yanks the gag from Mak’s mouth and turns to roast me with his glare.
“I’ll give you a few moments to catch up before we start the show.”
As he walks away, I drop to my knees and bury my face in Mak’s lap.
“Mak, I’m so sorry, I—”
“Romy, what the fuck have you done?” he hisses, terror cladding his words. “Tell me why Donnacha fucking Quinn’s men dragged me off a plane at JFK and brought me here to see you? What mess have you got yourself in?”
The secret I’ve been hiding from him for a decade tumbles from my lips, thick and fast. “I-I’ve been working with Belsky.”
