And then there’s the question of whether I want to leave here at all.
Every time I close my eyes all I can see is blood and violence, but more than that, if I run, I’ll have to leave them behind.
I’m not sure how Dad is still alive. He’s been beaten to the point he’s unrecognizable. He’s missing teeth and fingers, and he’s lost so much blood there’s a permanent crimson puddle beneath his chair.
And then there’s Mom.
My chest aches every time I look at the shell of a woman that raised me. Mottled bruises cover her face from the beatings she’s taken, and then there are the handprints around her throat.
For a time they tried to break Dad by choking her out, only to release her just as she started to lose consciousness. Over and over again they took her to the edge of death and then dropped her back into this shit hole where dying almost feels like a gift.
But there’s one thing that keeps me going. The knowledge that it’s not just me anymore, that while death may be a kindness to me, it’s not what’s best for the little life growing inside me.
I can’t give up because I have someone else relying on me.
A jagged wheeze comes from Dad, and I force my tender eyes open. I’m so tired I can barely keep them open most of the time, but the fresh horrors that await me each time they fall closed prevent me from falling asleep.
We’re alone now.
One of the rare times we’ve been left by ourselves since this ordeal started, but I guess they just assume we’re not going anywhere at this point.
“Dad?” I whisper, my voice hoarse from barely using it for days.
He doesn’t respond, and I force myself to look over his injuries, ignoring the way my stomach rolls with nausea.
His head has been dropped forward since he last passed out from pain, but the blood from his temple has slowed, which could be a good thing or a very fucking bad thing.
On one hand, the wound may be healing, or his body might be giving up.
The thought is like a hot poker to my chest.
I should have prepared myself for the inevitability by now. It’s been days of torture, days of blood and violence, and the reminder that our lives are in their hands, but the idea that we’ll take our last breath in this cell is still as startling as it was to begin with.
Glancing over at Mom, I’m faced with another wave of grief.
She’s alive, breathing, but her mind is gone. She’s crawled into the furthest recesses of her own subconscious to escape the horrors of this cell, and there’s no dragging her back.
At least not while we’re stuck here.
Footsteps on stone drag my attention to the door, and I toss up whether to pretend to be asleep or not. There are pros and cons for both options, and after having my head held and being forced to watch as my father’s fingers were cut off, I have to say pretending to be unconscious is looking like the better option, but when the door swings open, the guard is staring right at me.
His beady eyes have become a feature of my nightmares despite not knowing his name. When I was young, I would make a point of knowing everyone that worked at the compound, but the more paranoid Salvatore became, the higher the turnover rate, and it was too hard to keep up with the new faces.
I bite down on the inside of my cheek to catch the whimper his attention brings to the surface.
He steps closer to my parents, allowing someone else to step into the room.
Salvatore Lombardi could never be accused of being ugly, despite his soul being hideous. His dark hair is the same as his sons, and his startling blue eyes are so similar to the boy that’s spent years making my life miserable.
“Oh good, you’re awake,” he says as he steps further into the cell, a sneer tugging at his lips. As if the conditions of his cellar were beneath him. Which I suppose they are. It’s rare that he takes care of his own dirty work, usually preferring for one of his men to do the torturing.
The fact he’s down here at all is a bad sign, and my stomach rolls with anxiety at his presence.
Does he know I’m pregnant?
Does he realize his grandchild is growing inside me right now?
Damon has made sure I’ve had water, and he fed me some crackers not long after he came storming in here demanding answers, but that doesn’t mean he’s going to protect us.
