Page 44 of Left In The Dark

There was a man there I think. He . . . he was wearing a black ski mask and matching clothes. Panic sets in and I fight against the restraints to no avail. My sounds continue to be muffled and I close my eyes, suppressing tears. Crying will get me nowhere. I’ll be stuck in this predicament no matter how many tears I shed. Though they sometimes help release a tight pressure in my chest.

“Crying means weakness. Wipe your fucking face clean or ill scrub it for you, and you won’t like the marks I leave behind.”

My dad’s not here but his words still follow me. It’s why I hate when rooms get too quiet and empty. Opening my eyes, I glance around again. Hay covers the ground I’m lying on and the smell of animal shit hangs in the air. A metal bucket with a rope tied to the handle sits two feet away and there’s also a bottle of water. I try to wiggle my way closer, not getting very far and only adding to the ache in my bones. My throat is so dry, and nausea curls inside my stomach, threatening to crawl up when I scream into the gag.

Where am I and why was I brought here? That email didn’t match the one I’d been in contact with before because it wasn’t the agency. It was someone else. I bang my head on the ground, frustration rising inside me at my own ignorance. I needed a distraction, and was so desperate for one I ignored the warning bells in my head. I also needed another reason to tell Hayden no. To not be available for him. To not be available for my dad or anyone else I can’t stay away from unless something forces my hand.

This will definitely do it. How long have I been down here? Hunger cramps join the sick feeling in my gut. Has it been hours? Not days because I’m not covered in my own shit and piss yet. Of course thinking about it reminds my bladder how full it is.

Oinking sounds cut through the red metal walls. I’m in a barn. A ladder is inches from the bucket. Metal scratches metal, creating a harsh clanking sound. The sound of footsteps close in on me and the ladder shakes as I hear the soles of boots come into hard contact against the wood. I’m met with the same mask from earlier. The man stands over me.

He’s dressed in all black again, tilting his head as he kneels to the ground. Inching forward until he’s within arms reach, he yanks the cloth over my mouth down to my neck and he stares at me. His eyes are dark blue, pinning me in place.

“Who are you?” My voice trembles.

His head tilts again and he leans closer.

“Are you going to speak, or are you going keep sitting there like some fucking creeper? Why am I here?”

He straightens his stance and pulls something from his pocket, tossing an apple into my lap. My gaze travels to the water and then the bucket. He turns his head, looking where I do, and lowers himself to retrieve the bottle.

“Please. I’m so thirsty. I couldn’t get to it, and even if I could, my hands are behind my back. I need to pee too. You don’t want me to soil myself, do you?”

He shakes his head and then pauses as if thinking over my question. Fishing in his pocket for something, he lifts what looks like a notebook and uses the pen attached to scribble in it. My chest tightens when he shows me what he wrote.

“It is what pigs do, though. Shit and piss themselves.”

He flips it around to a new page before placing it closer to my face. “And that’s what you’ll be while you’re here. My little piglet.”

My stomach plummets and a high‑pitched sound slides up my throat. “What? Why would you . . . Who are you?”

Sighing loudly, he writes another message. “I’m about to be everything you need to survive.”

“Why did you call me that? Why would you bring me to this barn? Are you going to kill me?”

The pen comes in contact with the paper again and I swear he smiles with his eyes. “So many questions. Farm animals aren’t supposed to speak, and you’ll be good to remember that.”

“How am I supposed to tell you what I want?”

“You’ll figure out a way,” he writes. “The rest of the animals around here have.” He lets out a deep laugh and I don’t recognize it. It comes off as over performed, like he’s making himself sound different on purpose. He doesn’t want me to hear the real him. My blood goes cold. Is it because I know him?

“I’m not a fucking pig,” I shout with conviction.

He rips out a sheet of paper after responding and lays it next to my face. I shift my eyes to read it, backing away enough to get a better view of all the words.

“You lay with them and meet them at water towers. So I’d say you’re guilty by association.”

My harsh breaths scratch at my throat. “You mean Logan? Is that who you’re referring to?”

He nods curtly.

“Hayden?”

He doesn’t move.

“Is that you?” I press my lips together, breathing sharply through my nose. “No. That doesn’t make sense. Why . . . You may be an asshole but you’re not a kidnapper.” I flit my eyes up at him. “Unless . . . unless this is you fucking with me for not participating in the flyer bullshit. It was fucked up and you know it.”

He huffs but still doesn’t speak or write anything again.