He hadn’t raped me yet. . . but I knew it was coming. I’d had to suck his dick more than once if I wanted a mouthful of food.
I’d have used the line, “What would your wife think?” if she wasn’t sitting at his side, watching, each time he did it.
If I pleased him enough, he'd leave behind a large bowl of water that I was to lap at like a dog, and I would, because that was the best way to ration it to last for seven days—something I'd found out the hard way.
I stared at the bowl and the three laps of water I had left, licking at my dry lips. There was no denying my environment had impacted my appearance, ruined it, even. My hair no longer bounced; my lips weren't pretty and pouty—they were dry and cracked. My body looked different, with my new narrowshoulders, my depleting leg muscles, and the pot belly that only starvation could have given me. My skin was awful, too, breaking out in what I thought to be cystic acne.
Thanks a lot, stress.
I surely looked a mess, with all those new traits and the constant tears burning my cheeks, but I didn't even care. All I cared about was already gone. Taken from me with the last breath of the boy I loved.
I wanted to leave this place, to be reunited with Woodrow and my parents. I believed that Woodrow had left me and this earth, moving on to a better place without me. . . and my puffy eyes and tearstained cheeks were proof of how well I was dealing with that.
My heart was broken.
Completely fucking broken.
And it was the most painful thing I'd ever dealt with; finding someone, who, despite everything that had happened between us, that I wanted to spend my life with, had dreamed of a future with, only to have it ripped apart, was the most painful experience of my life. And it was a pain I had to live with, because apparently, heartbreak, wasn't a quick killer.
I couldn’t think about him.
I could never think about him. It made me useless. A defenseless mess of limbs and tears.
When my throat eased a little, I screamed again, calling Ville and Wynter all the awful names under the sun. Calling them monsters, though I doubted they were listening over the blasting music that constantly played now.
I waited another day, barely having had any sleep when the vibration of Wynter and the deformation of my favorite song was blasting again.
They’d taken everything that brought me comfort. Ville, and the playing with my hair as I was assaulted in his kitchen. Wynter, and the songs I sang myself to sleep when I first arrived, fearful of the nightmares I’d face of my dad’s murder. Their son, who they hadn’t shed a fucking tear for.
I hated them both so much. So fucking much.
I gripped my water bowl—the last drops of water now long gone—and feeling every ounce of anger breed beneath my skin, I smashed it at the side of my cage.
The thin china splintered into pieces I could use as a weapon.
I looked to Jesus, my only companion in the world, and I thanked him before concealing the largest shard with my foot.
My scream clawed its way up my dehydrated throat, and it fucking hurt. But it didn't stop me from screaming again. And again. And again.
Wynter's screeching rivaled mine in a vicious war, and she won. Her brash tone drowned out my pain, making my sound fade into her melody like I was an unwilling backup singer.
I slumped against the side wall, feeling totally defeated.
The stairs to heaven lit up, and I knew for sure I was fucking losing it. Because this house—despite the name printed on the mailbox, Heaven Manor—had no relation to anything heavenly.
Light from the dimly lit kitchen illuminated the steps. Heavy boots had each step creaking like it was about to give way.
The long-hanging light bulb down here no longer worked, exploding only three days after I’d been left here, but no one had bothered to change it. Or, clean the mess. Ville’s feet crunched the dust that was once the bulb’s glass as he moved closer.
I tucked my feet in close to my body, and the shard scraped the floor. The noise, like nails on a chalkboard, irritated my ears. But my situation drove me on. . .
Until I heard it.
The excited lilt of a child's voice pierced through the gloom and my heart. I careened around in time to see another pair of feet jumping down the last three steps.
“Ouch! Thathurt!” the little voice declared.
“Woody. . .?” I tried to get a good look at him, my fingers pulling at the wired box.
