Kiss Me in the Dark Anthology - Monica James Page 0,117

hidden in the pee corner to escape. This scared prisoner I’ve become though is hungry. I wonder if I could eat the spider. It would be disgusting but could provide protein.

Or poison.

Once again, I feel defeated. My luck, I’d gobble up that nasty spider only to die from the venom it carries. And then my dad would find my decomposed body hours too late or something.

He’d lose Mom and me both.

A scratchy sob pierces the air and I attempt to drum up tears. Nothing. I cry tearlessly for a minute and then swallow down the emotion. Mom was sick but she seemed hopeful. A liver could come at any time, she’d said. Dad, however, wasn’t convinced. He researched. He reached out. He Facebooked the world. All in an effort to save the love of his life.

But time is running out.

For the both of us.

I should have told her how much I’d loved her before bed. Instead, I was too worried about hopefully taking that final leap with Brandon that would have sealed our relationship. Sex. I’d made him wait but I was ready. And now…

God, I am so stupid.

I’m not sure exactly how long I’ve been down here, but it’s taking a toll on my sanity. Screamed until I was hoarse and voiceless. Cried until my stomach muscles were sore and aching. Spent unthinkable amounts of time fingering every crack and crevice in the darkness in an effort to find an escape route. Imagined every scenario about Brandon’s fate, none of them good. At one point, I even tried to count as high as I possibly could—I was well over six thousand when I got bored and gave up.

I’ve been here forever.

Hours or days or months—my mind is on a black, endless terrifying reel.

I’m in an eternal, dark hell.

With nobody to talk to.

With no food or water or bathroom.

With nothing but the blackness and insanity slowly seeping through the cracks of my soul to keep me company.

A sliver of blinding light slices across the dusty floor in front of me and I stare at it with squinty eyes in shock.

“Gabe. Please.” A tiny whispered plea.

I want to scream and cry and beg.

But I’m cold and tired. I’m disoriented and stressed. I just want to go home.

The slice of light becomes a distinct yellow square suspended about twelve feet above the ground. I blink several times in attempt to shield my sensitive eyes to the bright light. A silhouette—broad shoulders and wild hair—takes up most of the square, protecting me from the offensive light.

“How you doing down there, kiddo? Still alive and kickin’?” His deep voice is a gravelly rumble which used to excite me. Now, it scares the living crap out of me.

“I want to go home,” I tell him in a firm tone, despite the wobble in my voice.

He chuckles though it is a humorless sound. Dark, evil, hellish…yes. Out of humor, absolutely not. Who is this man who I’ve known for the past decade? I’ve watched him with other women, flirtatious and desirable. I’ve heard him whisper dirty, sexual promises to girlfriends over the years and would even grow jealous of the attention he showered them with. I mean, I’ve fantasized about his strong, capable hands roaming all over me as he kissed me for crying out loud. And all this time, beneath the jokes and friendly façade was a demon from hell waiting in the shadows for the perfect opportunity to take what wasn’t his.

“Baylee, baby, I told you already,” he says in a menacing tone dry of any wit, “you’re not going anywhere.”

This time, the tears do come. Small, hot tears streak down my cheeks and drip from my jaw. “Why?”

If he doesn’t plan on letting me escape, he at least owes me an explanation.

“Are you hungry?”

His blatant disregard for my question irritates me and I hobble over to the light that shines beneath him. My dirty, naked flesh is exposed but I want him to see me. I want him to see the girl he was supposed to look after. The girl he took for his own depraved reasons.

“Why are you doing this to me?”

I can’t make out his features but I can tell he’s annoyed with me. His tell—a frustrated hand running through his messy hair—rats him out. Hair that I know has a few streaks of grey at his temple. Hair that I used to dream about running my own fingers through.

“Sometimes, sweetheart, you have to make sacrifices. You, doll, are a sacrifice.