Page 87 of Beautiful Deceit
“You’re mine!” He screams again.
I feel a burst of pain on my side.
I wakeup alone in the room, my zip ties removed, but trapped.
A wide slot is cut in the bottom of the door. Small plates of food and drink pouches have been sent through regularly. With no windows and the sliver of light, I count the days by plates. Two come through with what feels like hours of time in between.
At first,I don’t eat, too afraid of what he might try to feed me, afraid he might drug me. I quickly grow weak. I decide if I have any chance at survival, I need some strength and my wits. I force down a few bites from each plate.
I spendhours feeling around my makeshift prison. There is a toilet against the wall and one small bed shoved into the corner.
I spend most of my time reliving each moment of my abduction and wishing I could have reacted differently. I can't believe how easily I let myself be taken in a room full of people. The thought sickens me. Darryl was indeed stalking me. His anger at me evident. I should have taken the flowers more seriously.
I haven’t seenhim since the first day in this house. I know he’s watching me. There’s a camera set high in the corner of the room, its red light blinking down. The little light is easily spotted in the dim room.
Why didn’t I go to the police? Why did I think I was safe? I hope Brian and Beau can help the police find me now.
I shudder, thinking if this happened just a few short months ago, no one would have the first inclination where to find me, but now at least I have hope.
Hopes a fickle bitch,I think days later. My aches have turned dull. I’m more sore than anything. My only real pain comes from my fist and foot. I hurt myself a couple hours ago when another tray of food was slid under the door. I lost my shit knowing another day had come.
I beg Darryl to let me go. I barter, marking crazy promises just to be set free.
Angry when he doesn’t respond, I scream and beat the hell out of the door, throwing my body at it and exhausting myself for the effort.
I don’t get a single word in response.
The waiting is killing me. I'm going out of my mind with all the possibilities and scenarios. I almost think it'd be better just to get it over with.
I can't even fathom what he wants from me. What is he planning?
I feellike I’m underground. The walls are thick and cool to the touch. The single overhead light is never extinguished, making it impossible to determine if it’s day or night. A chill that I can’t escape, fills my bones.
I sleepwhen the exhaustion won’t let me do anything else.
Surely a week has passedsince I've been locked in this hole. I've counted seventeen meals and I'd estimate there were maybe ten before I started keeping track. I gouge my nail into the hard-packed dirt floor every time one is slid under the door.
I'm goingto rot in this room, never seeing the sunlight again. I’ll never see Beau's gorgeous green eyes again. I’ll never tell him I love him or thank him for helping me live in the moment.
Rita's words haunt me. Her dreams of me living my life and not letting anyone choose what I make of it, plague me often. If I'd only listened.
Some daysI feel like the only thing I can do is cry. Others, I'm so angry it feels like I could bust the door down with my rage. In between these days, I return to the begging. I plead to be let out, to be free. I bargain, promising not to tell anyone where I was. I’ve screamed for so long it feels like my throat is bleeding. I get no reply. Not. One. Word.
I stop eating. I only drink the barest minimum when I feel like my throat will split. I’m hardly ever awake anymore. When I am, I pray for sleep to take me. I’m not even fighting anymore because there’s no point.
A noise wakes me.
A shuffle just outside the door.
“Hello?” I try to call. It takes my voice a few tries before the word actually comes out.
“Jessica,” my eyes fall closed at the name. I haven’t heard it in years.
“Darryl.”
“You haven’t been eating.” His statement doesn’t require an answer. “Is there…” he trails off shuffling at the door, “Is there something else you want? I remember how much you used to like that cinnamon cereal.” He sounds just like he used to, after a night of drinking. After he’s either called me by my mother’s name or slapped me around. He sounds like he’s trying to apologize for his behavior.
It makes me want to throw up.
