pressure.” I don’t hide the sarcasm in my response. “You know you could still do something about making the world a better place.”
“I already did. I had you and your sister.”
The creak of the front door opening travels all the way up the stairs to my bedroom.
My mother peers at the open door, and I watch her smile fade and her movements falter.
“Dad’s home early. Maybe he can come.” I can’t help but smile at that thought. He’ll see me in action. My mother’s smile reappears, mirroring my own but she doesn’t answer me.
I can’t die here. Not like this. Not yet.
Even though my body aches with every small movement, I push myself up onto my hands and knees. My palms press against the cracked cement floor as my body arches involuntarily from the pain of laying still for hours with so many cuts and bruises. I don’t know how long it’s been, only that it’s been far too many hours of feeling hopeless and beat down.
There aren’t any cameras in here that I can tell. The four walls of old brick could tell endless stories I’m sure, but unless I’m blind to them, there isn’t a record of what’s happened here apart from the camera Brass brought in. My eyes strain as I inspect each crevice again. Some stones are damp, others stained from water or blood or something else entirely, I’m not certain. Crawling and then slowly standing, I test any crack that may be weak from decay and time. Everything aches, but the pain doesn’t affect me like it did before. It simply is.
I spend my time testing every weak spot, searching for any out. Nothing gives, though. The door is next. It’s a foolish thought, but I test the doorknob. It’s iron and the handle is antiquated. If I gave a damn about history beyond legal cases and precedents, maybe I’d know more about this location and what it was possibly used for, but I haven’t a clue. In my wildest guess I imagine the Civil War and bunkers where men hid or held prisoners. The thought has occurred to me more than once: How many people have died here?
I question if I should risk screaming for help, but I’m certain I’m being held underground. Given the damp smell and the layers of stone and dirt, I would be surprised if I wasn’t hidden away beneath some rotten barn or perhaps it’s only a small door, hidden in brush that would reveal a stairway and lead down to this dungeon.
I test the hinges on the door, praying they haven’t been kept in good condition. They match the knob, so I imagine they’re original. And just like the knob that’s unmoving, so are the hinges.
Losing the last piece of hope and purpose, my arm drops heavily to my side.
I have no way out, no weapon. My mind races with all of the stories I’ve been told, the horrible nightmares that came true.
“There’s always a way.” I whisper the sentiment. I’m slow as I sit cross-legged facing the door. Someone will come through that door. That person, although a villain on the surface, will be my saving grace. He’ll open the door and prove it can be done; he’ll bring a weapon … which I could take from him. Something, some shred of hope will be delivered with the creak of the door.
It’s a soothing thought as I lay my head back against the hard brick and ignore the screams of pain from every inch of my body. My head is dizzy, my throat dry. I’m starving and I have no idea how long it’s been since I was taken.
I told myself I wouldn’t cry anymore, but damn if the tears don’t spill easily while I wait for whatever it is to come.
Marcus
Three days total have gone by since she’s been taken.
Two hours have passed since the video was first sent via a link to an old burner phone that Charlie Riggins discovered. Without him, it would have taken far too many hours for me to discover the video had been sent. It was sent along with a threat but no demands: You killed mine, I’ll slowly kill yours and there’s not a damn thing you can do about it. Brass gets off on pain. He wants to torture me and he’ll use her to do it.
I gave him no response. No threat, no reaction whatsoever. Anything I give him will only fuel his desire to get back