AllFreeNovel
Share Us
“This will sting,” he warns seconds before spraying it on. He wasn’t lying. The pain is white-hot and sharp, demanding every bit of my attention. I place the glass and bowl down and squeeze my hands into tight fists, wincing. He fans the wound until the pain subsides, then takes a bit of antibiotic ointment with his finger and rubs it on the wound. Each time he passes over my skin, it’s as if he’s cutting me open again.
He swipes his finger on the side of his pants and prepares a new bandage. “How are you feeling?”
“Hungry,” I tell him, reaching for the bowl of oatmeal again after taking the smallest sip of wine. I’ve learned to pace myself in such a short amount of time. “And bored. Can I at least have a TV or something?”
He seems to contemplate it. “Yeah, I can do that. I’ll bring down my laptop, and we’ll watch something together later. I have to disconnect the Wi-Fi first.”
I nod. “Of course.” Nothing sounds worse than watching a movie with him, but I don’t argue. “Thank yo—”
He cuts me off with his hand held up in the air, shoving the opposite one into his pocket. When he looks at the phone in his hand, he curses under his breath.
“Everything okay?”
He hardly looks at me as he power walks across the room. “Be quiet,” he orders just before shutting the door. I take another bite of the oatmeal slowly, no idea what just happened but too hungry to care.
He left the first aid kit here.
The realization slams into me as I swallow the bite down. Placing my bowl back onto the bed, I slide the first aid kit toward me and sort through the contents. Maybe there’s a scalpel or needle I can use to…dosomething.To my disappointment but not surprise, it’s mostly packs of gauze and antibiotic cream. There are a few latex gloves, bandages of various sizes, an instant cold pack, burn cream, the alcohol spray, and a few antiseptic towelettes. I move two rolls of medical tape and cotton swabs, searching for something.Anything.
There’s not even a pair of tweezers. If anything sharp existed here before, he’s taken them out already. I toss both handfuls of things into the box again and push it back into place.
Then, something strange settles over me.
Did I hear the door lock when he left?
It’s become such a part of the routine that I’ve stopped listening for it, but there’s a voice in my head saying I didn’t hear it this time. The movement feels unfinished.
Cautiously, I stand from the bed. Despite the fact that I’ve been making sure to walk laps around the room several times a day to keep up my strength, my legs are tired from not being used. My feet hurt on the cold, hard, carpeted floor. I’m barefoot—as he didn’t leave my shoes down here—when I reach the door. Silently, I promise myself that if the door opens, I will run and fight with every ounce of strength I have. That I won’t stop running until I’m safe, somewhere far away from him.
That, no matter what, I won’t stop, won’t hesitate, won’t let my fear control me.
With a trembling hand, I twist the doorknob slowly.
It opens.
I pull back, just waiting for a lock to catch, but it doesn’t happen. I step out into the space in front of me, a boulder sinking in my chest.
No.
It’s impossible…
This is not the house I visited before. Wherever I am, it’s not the place I was supposed to meet “Owen,” not the address I gave Kassara. Crushing defeat settles in my gut, and I know, without a doubt, I am now the only chance I have of getting out of this place.
All this time, I’ve been waiting for someone to save me. Waiting for Kassara to finally realize something’s wrong and send the police. I’ve been in denial, convinced she’s just been distracted or that the police have been busy, even though I know better.
I didn’t want to face the truth, but now I have no choice.
The room outside of mine is cold and dark, and there’s a set of rickety stairs in front of me. The lower floor of the house, which I know isn’t a basement because I see light through a small window on the far side of the room, is basically empty, with a washer and dryer to my right and a clothesline hung across the room, where various shirts and pants are hanging. As if he’s made this bottom floor his closet.
I look back just once, spying the dead bolt and chain on the door of my prison cell from the outside for the first time. With that, I grab hold of the railing and carefully make my way up the staircase.
As I near the top, the sound of his voice sends chills down my spine. “What are you talking about? I told you, I’m fine.”
Then there’s another voice. A woman’s voice.
Someone else is in the house.
“I’m worried about you, Chris. Something’s going on. I know it is.”
