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“We won’t have to wait much longer.” He’s turned on his side toward me. I want to turn toward him, but, somehow, I don’t have the energy.
I close my eyes and imagine myself sinking through the mattress into frigid ocean water. It would be cold as fuck at first. But eventually, it would be dark and quiet. I would be at one with my sister. I would finally know whether it was peaceful to drown.
It would be more peaceful thanthis.
“Good.” My mouth is dry. It’s so hard to swallow. “I’m tired, Rome.”
It’s like the words have summoned him—the bastard in the mask. The door clangs open with its death-knell sound, and things happen fast—faster than a ship sinking. Heavy footsteps.
A dull thread of pain as I try to sit up and fail.
The hiss and deep pop of a tranquilizer gun firing.
It flashes in the air above us. Rome holds out his hand, but it doesn’t matter. The dart flies into the middle of his chest. His body thuds back on the mattress. I can’t take my eyes off him. He looks so pale.
In his weakened state, it doesn’t take long for the tranquilizers to work.
“Rome,” I croak.This is not the plan. “Rome—”
The masked man reaches down and hauls me up by my hair. My scalp screams in protest. I hate the whimper I let out—it stillhurts, damn it. When he moves me, it burns everywhere. He drags me onto the chair and wrenches my arms behind my back. I can move my legs freely, but my arms are tightly bound behind me.
I want to die.
I want to drown.
My heart beats harder. Faster.
The man moves back into the hall, and a frustrated growl tears from my lips.I want to die with Rome. I want to die with Rome. Let me die with him.
Our captor comes back with a wide plastic bag. I smell food. I sense warmth. My tongue comes alive at the mere suggestion of food. And my body, my poor, brittle body, would do anything to get that food. I would kill a person to get that bag of food. I would let our twisted captor rape me. I would sign over every cent to my name, from now to eternity, to get just one goddamn forkful of whatever he’s got in that bag.
The plastic doesn’t matter. The styrofoam doesn’t matter. I’m already starving and the tease of the food inside those bags is like a hard punch to my stomach.
With my arms tied tightly behind me, I can’t reach out. Can’t grab at any of the delicious morsels he’s brought here to torture me with.How am I supposed to eat without my hands?
“Please,” I whimper. I fucking beg him. “Please!” My voice is pitiful. I have been reduced to a mere shell of a person, a shadow who begs and pleads for something, foranything.
I don’t have the energy to be ashamed at the way I lurch forward against the bonds. It’s not even me, it’s my body.The sooner I can be free of my body; the sooner everything will be better.
We’ll be in a hole in the ground, or dumped in the ocean for sharks to feed on, or burned to piles of ash and bone. All of those eventualities would be an improvement over this one.
The masked man kneels in front of me and opens the bag. The slick sound of the plastic makes my mouth water.Is Rome still alive?Yes. Still breathing, though he’s not taking very deep breaths.
Finally, shame floods my chest. I can’t look away from the fucking styrofoam containers in the asshole’s hands.
I’ll do absolutely anything, and I’m terrified he knows that.
He lays out a fork on the plastic bag and reaches for the first container. Then the second. Then the third. The man in the mask opens each one, placing them in a neat row like the monster that he is.
Mac and cheese. Fries. Mashed potatoes.
Fuck me. It’s all my favorite things. I’ve never smelled anything like I’m smellingthis. Not in Paris, not in Venice, not in a thousand fine dining restaurants.
This is heaven. Maybe I’ve died, after all.
My stomach growls. I’m still alive.What a fucking betrayal.My mind splits in two. The sane part of me wants to spit at the smug bastard in front of me, to close my mouth up tight, to refuse to take a single bite.Fuck this guy and his food.I can’t look away as the fork flashes down into the macaroni and cheese. Big noodles. Thick cheese. It’s hot, fresh, looks homemade. Not some boxed bullshit.
He lifts the fork to my lips.
