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I walk back to the bed, taking the lantern he left as well. I huddle on the bed in the corner of the cell, my back pressed against the stone wall, trying to not freak the fuck out. I can't even look at the lantern for too long without thinking of the car wreck and almost panicking.
I choose something else to focus on, and I spot all the food he's left behind, the water, and the disgusting bucket in a corner that I willneveruse. I try not to think about the purpose of that bucket as I look at the food again, where it has spilled across the bed and rolled off to the floor.
I reach into the backpack and find a washcloth and a roll of toilet paper. I use the washcloth to wipe myself and ignore the toilet paper.
I think I'm going to be sick.
He caged me like an animal and locked me away like a secret.
My mother's voice comes back to haunt me as I look at the bright green apple that's rolled onto the dirty floor.
Oink, oink, piggy. You know you want to lick it clean.
19
AVERY
It could be minutes or hours or even days. I'm not sure how long I lay there, curled in the dark corner of my cage and hoping for Gabe to come back. It feels like he's been gone too long. He said he would come back this afternoon, but there are no windows to tell the time by.
Is it afternoon or evening? Has night already come and gone?
I've paced the floors of my cell, pulled at the bars, and looked beneath the bed searching for a way out of here. There's no secret tunnel out of this hellhole, and if he doesn't come back, I'm convinced I'm going to die in this place. If he does come back, I might kill him for leaving me here.
On the bed, beneath the blanket while I try to keep out the cold that needles at my skin, I go through all of the horrible scenarios in my head.
The first one is that he left me here intentionally and that I'm going to be stuck here until, at some point, the bulbs overhead finally burn out, and I'm alone in the dark. The thought sends a shiver bolting up my spine as something scurries just out of sight.
What was that? And why do I not want to know?
The second scenario is that something has happened to him. Maybe he fell and hit his head on the way back up to civilization or maybe he got in another fight and he's been taken to the hole. Maybe he either doesn't remember to come back for me or can't come back, so I'll be left here, screaming into oblivion.
The third one, and the scenario that I hope for, is that Gabe never left. He's just been standing there at the top of the stairs, waiting for me and not really leaving me in the creepy basement by myself. I prefer that one, but the more I yell for him to come back, my shouts echoing against the stone walls, the less I believe that he is up at the top of the stairs, ready to walk down and come back to me.
It makes me cry. I'm not proud of it, and I'm not afraid of the dark, but I definitely don't appreciate being locked down here, where it feels like things lurk in the shadows that I can't quite see. Even worse than looking out at the massive space is looking up at the mirrors piecemealed to the ceiling. He even put them above the bed, so that I can't escape them. When I glance up, I see my blue eyes blinking back at me, though I'm contorted. My face slices across the uneven surfaces, but the more I look at the mirrors, the more I think I might actually see my true self. I don't know the last time I saw me for, well, me, but now I spot the blueish bags beneath my eyes, the hollow beneath my cheekbones, and the skeletal look that seems to have taken over me. There can be no dysmorphia here beneath his hall of mirrors. There are too many of them, and my brain can only fool me so much.
When I look up at the ceiling, I cry even harder until I'm sobbing on the bed, shaking beneath the blanket, and begging for him to come back.
How long is he planning on leaving me down here?
Will he come back today like he said he would, or will he wait until tomorrow?
I can't be here until tomorrow. I don't know if I'll make it.
I stare at the other orange he left for me, untouched and rolled onto the floor next to the apples. I guess it fell when he leapt over the bed and kissed me. Or maybe it fell when he pulled away from me, took out his dick, and jerked off all over my tits. I still can't believe that happened. Most guys prefer pussy in my limited experience, but what did he say? Oh yeah, that he wouldn't give his cum to a dead girl.
Whatever.
He gave it to my tits instead, spraying rope after rope across my bra, my chest, and my abdomen. He looked like a man possessed when he came, his eyes closing with his orgasm. When they opened, his delicious mouth fell open, and he stared at me, breathing hard, as the twin pools of ink in his irises captured me by the feet and pulled me under.
I shouldn't be thinking about him.
Or his cock.
And definitely not the way the cords in his neck jutted out and his jaw clenched when he came.
Shit. Well, what else am I supposed to be thinking about down here?
It's not like I want to think about him, but between the most likely haunted basement, the mirrors above the ceiling, the food, and him, I choose him. He's the only choice that doesn't involve a surefire hit to my sanity.
