My head still hurt as my eyes blinked open, taking in my surroundings.
Discomfort wrapped around me like a blanket. But nothing kept me warm as my naked skin lay cold against a metal floor. My legs scrunched tightly to my chest, as the length of my entrapment allowed no stretching.
While my eyes were closed, for that brief second, I prayed Woodrow was lying, but he wasn’t; I was in a dog cage. A coded lock on the front.
I maneuvered, trying to sit up, but I did it too quickly, causing my head to spin faster.
The height of the enclosure wouldn’t allow me to sit upright, and I bumped the top of my head on the metal bars. My hair cushioned the blow. I slumped down, my hands rubbing at my cold arms.
The swelling around my knuckles had decreased slightly, and I could move my hand without the intense pain that was there yesterday, proving me wrongabout thinking they were broken.
I sat, looking on with my neck bent to the right, and thought to myself, this is exactly how a dog looks at you when it wants you to take pity on it.An ugly dog.
I blinked away my thoughts, sifting through all the nonsense and awful memories in my head.
My fuzzy vision saw him in the distance—the boy I hadn’t seen in years—concealed by a leather-looking jacket and dark jeans.
I blinked him in, taking in what made him so different to Hell. The way he talked, the way he moved, the way he stood. Different, everything was different.
Both eyes locked on him—something that never ever happened. My left eye had been permanently hidden by a waft of thick hair for ten years. Hidden to hide the damage and the disorientated blurs I saw because of it.
I brought my fingers to my face. Slow and entranced. I felt my skin, my fingers traveling over the mottles and paths of abuse Woodrow’s hands created long ago.
I stared at those hands, watching them bat the air as he stressed.
My fingers journeyed higher, feeling for my grown-out fringe. And that was when I felt it. Or, the lack of it. . .
Supple and smooth, I was shaved to the scalp. The entire left side of my fringe lay fanned out in long strands on the floor.
I hadn’t noticed it at first. Hadn’t realized that a chunk of my hair stayed splayed on the floor when my head lifted.
My hands rushed, clutching at the fallen lengths.
And for the first time in so many years, I prayed. I prayed for this to all be a bad dream. I prayed to God above. . . but he didn’t answer.
“Oh, please. Please, no.” The whisper fell from my trembling lips, and I fell silent.
My heart raced, almost feeling like it was pounding at my ribs, giving me another beating as my hands began pounding the side of the cage.
I turned, hitting the opposite bars, hoping to find a weak spot that would have this contraption collapsing.
The metal shook, but the cage remained sturdy.
Giant footsteps brought him closer. His stare—though different to Hell’s ice-cold glare—froze me to the spot. My hands stopped moving. My head stopped careening.
“She’s awake. The drugs have worn off. Thank fuck, the drugs have worn off.” He spoke, the phone still held loosely in his shaking fingers.
“What have you done?” I questioned, as he bent to my level.
The man on the phone asked if I was okay, but I ignored him, and so did Woodrow as we just stared at each other with every emotion a human could feel.
“What have you done?” I asked again, my voice louder. “What the fuck have you done!” I screeched, scraping my throat on the sharp words I wanted to cut him with.
I launched at the cage, struggling to get my skinny arm through so I could fucking strangle him. He jumped back, almost like he was startled.
“I hate you. I fucking hate you. I fucking hate you, so much! Let me out! LET ME THE FUCK OUT!”
I pulled my arm back inside, and I thrashed and kicked at the barred walls, but the cage barely humored me.
