Broken windows let in an occasional breeze that can’t be felt in the stagnant heat outside. A torn piece of paper floats across the floor in front of us like a prison tumbleweed. Warm air hits my sweaty skin. I shiver, the warmth doing nothing to stop the chill from stabbing its way through my skin down into my bones like an ice pick. My lower jaw vibrates. My teeth chatter so loudly the sound echoes around in my brain. To make it stop I clamp my jaw so tight I’m sure my teeth are about to crack.
It smells like death.
My stomach rolls.
Decay thickens the air and makes it hard to breathe. It’s more than just a smell. It’s a feeling. A feeling I fear I’ll never be able to rid from my nostrils or my thoughts. It sticks with me, covers me, cages me in as if I need a reminder that, like the many who’ve been here before, I am a prisoner.
Bits of paper and clothing are strewn about the cracked concrete floor. Thin dirty mattresses are everywhere except on the iron bed frames, the welds thick at the joints from multiple repairs. Some of the mattresses are leaning against the bottom of the stairs. Some are stacked in the middle of the hallway. Some just lay about at various angles with tears exposing their springs like corpses left in the very spot they died in.
There’s more graffiti here than on the outside of the building. Painted on the floor is a large red satanic star. I shut my eyes tightly as I cross over it. When I’m sure I’m clear I open my eyes again and look up to where an entire doorway of a cell appears to be stained in blood. A large splatter covers the right side, turning into thinner and thinner drip marks the further down the wall I look before turning into a black pool stain on the concrete.
Bile rises in my throat.
I can see the violence of the past all around me. It flutters in the air like ghosts surrounding me, making their presence known. They whisper in my ear, sliding across my prickly skin.
The breeze turns from warm to cold as the sun sets and the prison glows with a deep blue as the moon lights our way. I can hear the screams of the past. Banging against the bars. A last cry of whoever met their unfortunate end in that blood-stained cell.
“I’m not afraid,” I say out loud. I’m not sure if I’m talking to Smoke or myself. But even I don’t believe my own words.
Smoke chuckles, guiding me into a cell and slides the metal bars shut with a bang, creating a never-ending echo. He produces an ancient-looking key and locks the cell with a click that makes my heart jump in my chest.
The sun’s almost completely set now and the light through the windows is dim at best.
“No lights?” I ask.
The second the words leave my lips I know it’s a stupid question. The place barely has standing walls. Of course, it doesn’t have electricity.
“Don’t tell me you’re afraid of the dark,” Smoke says, tucking the key into his back pocket.
“No,” I lie. “I’m not afraid of anything. Not even the likes of you.”
The corner of his lip curls up into an evil, half-smile. He leans forward with his hands on the bars right above his head. He looks me up and down. His eyes widen. He looks hungry. Angry. Feral.
“Oh, hellion. I very much doubt that.”
I take a step back to gain more distance even though there are bars separating us.
“I've seen fear a million times in a thousand different ways,” Smoke says.
He pulls out the key once more and turns it in the lock. He’s inside the cell now.
I’m backing up and backing up until I’m trapped against the far wall.
Smoke approaches and leans down. He’s so close his nose is almost touching the place between my neck and ear.
“You can’t tell me you’re not afraid. I know fear when I see it.”
I’m trembling as he closes his eyes and inhales deeply running the tip of his nose runs across my skin.
“Fuck, I can smell it on you, kid.”
“Don’t call me a kid,” I seethe through my teeth.
His eyes darken with fury. “I’ll call you whatever the fuck I want to call you.”
“My name is Frankie.” I say with a sudden boost of confidence.
He’s so close now, his chest is pressed against mine. “I know your name. I just don’t fucking care.”
We’re still, locked in position, neither one of us wanting to make the first move. Smoke breaks first.
“Your eyes really are that color,” he whispers. I’m taken aback.
“What’s going to happen to me?” I ask, on a shaky whisper.
Smoke places his hands on the wall beside my head, caging me in. I’m eye to emotionless eye with the ghost of Christmas kidnapping.
“Whatever the fuck I want,” he growls.
“Fuck you,” I spit.
He chuckles, and I can feel it in my chest. His lips brush against my jaw.
“Only if you beg.”
Chapter Thirteen
I’m alone.
Smoke’s gone. He left me a mattress and a few bottles of water. The cell has no toilet but a small metal sink with no running water. Since it has the only drain in the place, I use it to relieve my full bladder and lay down just as darkness blankets everything.
It’s freezing. I’m awake, but I’m not sure if I’ve slept yet or not. I don’t remember dreaming, but I also don’t remember falling asleep. How long have I been in here? Minutes? Hours? Days? Long enough to make me understand how inmates in solitary go crazy.
Sitting alone in this cell is a lot like walking on train tracks in the dark when you know a train is coming along at any second. My skin pricks with anxiety. With the unknown.
When? When? When?
My stomach rumbles with hunger, but it’s the least of my worries.
Every few seconds a whistling noise starts like wind blowing through a pipe. It begins low and grows louder and louder until it sounds as if the ceiling above me might burst. It stops completely for a few moments before starting all over again.
I count the sequence of these whistles to keep my brain occupied. One. Two. Three. It’s when I’m on four that the whistling stops and another kind can be heard.
One that’s not coming from any pipe; it’s coming from down below.
I pretend it’s nothing until I hear footsteps on the metal stairs. The hair on the back of my neck stands on end. My palms begin to sweat.
He’s back.
I sit up and pull my knees up to my chest. A barrier that can easily be breached.
The clouds shift through the large window on the far wall revealing a half moon which gives off just enough light to remind me I can see.
A shaky yellow stream from a flashlight bounces off the walls of my cell and hits me in the eye, momentarily blinding me.
A key turns in the lock and I hear the squeal of the door sliding open.
Holding in a cry I grip the mattress tightly.
My eyes strain as I peer into the blackness. The shadow standing above me is big but not nearly as large as Smoke. When the clouds clear and allow the rest of the moonlight to flood the cell and reveal more of the stranger in front of me.
This man is much shorter, skinnier, and dirtier than Smoke. He takes out the toothpick he’s chewing on and smiles, revealing a missing front tooth. “Hello there, darlin’. I’m Wes,” he says with a crooked smile.
“Did Smoke send you?” I ask, hesitantly.
The man shakes his head slowly from side to side, and for a split-second, I think I’m saved.
Saved is the last thing I am right now.
His eyes rake across my body like I’m wearing nothing at all. The hair on the back of my neck stands up.
He sits down on the bed next to me. I immediately jump up and run for the now open cell door. He reaches out and grabs my arm, pulling me back down on the mattress.
“Oh, no you don’t. We just met. Let’s get to know each other for a while.” The man grins, and I shake my head.
“No, let me go.”
“Why do you gotta be so rude? I ju
st want us to be friends.”
Wes reminds me of a snake slithering his way around a rodent playfully before squeezing the life from its body. He looks like a snake, too. Flat-headed. Beady, little, wide-set eyes, and a sharp tongue that might as well be forked.
This man is not here to rescue me.
A surprising thought crosses my mind. It sounds idiotic, even to me.
I hope Smoke comes back soon.
“Smoke treating you alright?” the man asks, sucking on his bottom lip and shuffling closer to me on the mattress. He’s got my wrist in his grip and as much as I try, I’m too battered and bruised to fight him off. “I’ve been sent to check up on things and from the looks of it, things look real good.”
Everything in me is screaming to fight, but I don’t have anything to fight him off with. I’m weak. So weak. He palms himself through his jeans and my stomach rolls. If it wasn’t already empty it would be now.
“Think of me like your secondary babysitter,” he hisses, placing his thin cold hands on my ankles. He pries my legs apart, and I flip over, trying to crawl off the end. “Fiesty. I like ‘em feisty.”
I scream as loud as I can until my own ears hurt from the sound.
“Smoke’s not here, darling. It’s just you and me.” I feel his knee on the mattress. “There, there now. It looks like you’ve had a rough day, let me make it better.”
His grip around my ankle tightens. He uses his knees to keep my legs spread painfully apart. My sobs are silent because my voice is gone.
“Let me see that pretty, pink pussy,” he moans, tugging at the waistband of my jeans. “My cock wants a taste.”
He flips me over, and regardless of my empty stomach, I know I’m going to be sick. There’s no stopping it. I try and swallow it down, but as he reaches for his belt and unbuckles his pants, I know it’s only a matter of seconds before it erupts from my throat.
He manages to get my jeans down to my knees then reaches for his buckle. He frees his tiny ant-eater looking cock and tugs at it a few times. Groaning while keeping his eyes fixated on the space between my legs.
Slowly, I raise my knee and wait a few agonizing seconds for the perfect moment. When he licks his lips and reaches for my panties, I straighten my leg, kicking my heel into his crotch.
He howls in pain and I make a run for it, but I’m weak and slow. Within seconds, he’s on me, pinning me to the ground.
“I was gonna make this good for you,” he spits, his eyes bulging from his tiny head. “You stupid cunt!”
He punches me across my already injured jaw, and I see stars.
Wes covers my mouth with his hand, and I can’t hold it down any longer. I throw up against his palm but he keeps his hand pressed firmly over my mouth. My stomach keeps pushing everything upwards. I’m choking on my own bile; my eyes water. Everything’s blurry. I can’t breathe. I can’t see.
“Now.” He leans down, his putrid breath on my face. He holds a gun to my temple. He talks through his teeth, spraying his spit on my face. “I’m going to make you feel all the pain.”
I’m so dizzy. The room is spinning. The bloodied and rusted concrete finds its way in and out of my vision over and over again. Wes is tearing at my clothes. My shirt is open. Even with the gun to my head, I’m fighting and fighting him, but I don’t feel myself moving.
This is what it means to be all out of fight.
I thought I had seven more days.
I was wrong.
An explosion booms through the cell. It’s so loud it temporarily replaces all other sound. All I hear is a high-pitched ringing in my ears. Wes’s weight leaves my body, his gun drops from my head. He disappears into a mist of red and pink, falling lifeless against the iron bed frame. His mouth is open, and so are his eyes but he sees nothing.
Wes is dead.
I try to catch my breath but can’t get off the floor. I watch motionless as Wes’s blood seeps into the dingy yellowed mattress, staining it a deep red.
Smoke walks over to him, gun in hand. He crouches down and smirks.
“How’d that feel, motherfucker?”
Chapter Fourteen
Smoke’s shadow in the moonlight covers every inch of my body and blocking every bit of the light from the window. I heave again, but there’s nothing left in my stomach.
And nothing left of my hope.
There’s only so much one person can take, and I fear I’m nearing the point of no return.
I wipe my mouth with the back of my hand. “You…You killed him,” I whisper.
“He interfered,” Smoke answered. “No one interferes.” He lights a cigar and takes a puff, blowing smoke rings into the cell.
I spot Wes’s fallen gun. It’s within reach.
I have an idea. It’s a stupid and reckless one, but it’s all I’ve got.
Dr. Ida Tip: If you see an opportunity to escape, take it.
I pretend to heave again and stretch my fingers, connecting with the gun. My mouth is inches away from bits of Wes’s skull. My fingers brush over soft chunks of his brain, and if my stomach wasn’t already empty, I really would be heaving again. I can smell the copper in his blood and feel the heat escaping his freshly opened skull as it rises from his corpse.
My fingertips contact the gun. I wrap my hand around it and place my finger on the trigger. Smoke’s standing behind me, I can feel his eyes on my back. I sit up slowly onto my knees only to be met with the barrel of his gun on the back of my head.
“You going to kill me, hellion?” Smoke asks, sounding amused.
I’m glad my torment and agony is so entertaining for him. I don’t see how I can save anyone right now. Let alone myself. I feel all hope draining from my body, from my soul, like someone has pulled the bath plug.
I make a decision.
A vengeful spiteful stupid decision.
One I won’t be around to regret.
“No, I’m not going to kill you.” I say, shifting the gun into position. I turn around slowly so he can be rest assured it’s not pointed at him.
It’s in my mouth.
Chapter Fifteen
Impatient bitch.
This girl would rather kill herself then wait for someone else to do it.
I’m pretty sure the asshole with his brains scattered all around the cell is one of Griff’s men. He’s checking up on me and I won’t fucking tolerate that kind of bullshit. I told Griff I’d bring him Frankie in a week’s time I’ll make good on my word.
I’ll also bring him this motherfuckers head in a box.
But first I’ve got to deal with the issue at hand.
I think it’s safe to say that boredom isn’t a problem of mine. Not anymore.
Not where Frankie Helburn is concerned and not since I’ve seen her body back in the motel room.
And what a fucking body it is. Even scraped and cut up, maybe even because of it, I was rethinking my plans for her.
A week isn’t nearly long enough when I think of how much pleasure I could get from taking my revenge out on the body of Frank Helburn’s only daughter. I could hurt her. Her body. Her mind. I could destroy her and hand him back an empty fucking shell only capable of retelling the stories of what I’ve done to her over and over again. I could ruin that beautiful body of hers in every single way possible. Frank Helburn would get the message loud and motherfucking clear.
Fuck with me and suffer the consequences.
But my revenge plans are ruined and so is my deal with Griff if the bitch is dead.
I lean against the wall with one leg raised, my boot flat against it as if she’s about to sing me a song instead of threatening to blow her fucking brains out. No matter what I can’t let her pull the trigger. It will destroy all my plans and I won’t fail. Not at this. As much as it pains me to rely on something or someone else, I need this crazy bitch.
I try to appear as calm as I can, but my blood is boiling. I’m angry, and I’m irritated. She could ruin everything on one pull of the trigger. “You’re gonna let th
is shit-bag be the reason for the end?”
She closes her eyes, and I can see by the way the hand holding the gun is shaking that she’s trying to grow the balls to pull the trigger.
“I’ll give it to you. You’re creative, but in this situation, suicide is the coward’s way out. I didn’t take you for a coward,” I tell her.
That part’s true. She’s not the shy meek girl I thought she was while watching her. She’s stronger than I thought. Defiant.
Wild.
Not to mention, out of her god damned mind.
Frankie’s breathing heavy. Her t-shirt is ripped down the middle exposing her taut stomach.
Her waist is small and trim and the way she’s breathing so erratically I can make out the shadows of her abs beneath her bruised skin. Her thighs and calves are shapely. I’ve never seen her workout in all the time I’ve watched her, but there’s no doubt the girl does more physical work than just walking to and from school every day.
Her banging body isn’t the only thing that throws me. Well, besides her complete lack of self-preservation. It’s her eyes. Originally, I thought her eye color was just another distortion in that grainy picture on my phone, but it turns out it was the only accurate thing about that picture. Bright yellow-gold with spots of orange. I’ve never seen anything like it. She’s got fucking flames in her eyes.
Fitting.
“If you wanna take the coward’s way out, go right on ahead. Pull the fucking trigger. I’m not gonna fucking stop ya,” I make a large sweeping motion with my arm.
She opens her eyes and slowly removes the gun from her mouth only to place it against her temple. My gun is still in my hand, but only in case she decides to swing hers my way.
“How is this the coward’s way out?” she asks. Her pupils dilate. Her bottom lip is bruised and swollen, a dried patch of blood in the corner.
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