Total pages in book: 96
Estimated words: 88115 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 441(@200wpm)___ 352(@250wpm)___ 294(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 88115 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 441(@200wpm)___ 352(@250wpm)___ 294(@300wpm)
Annoyed at my body for forcing me to emerge from my warm bed, I let out a grumble. I rub the sleep from my eyes, yawn, and slowly make my way to the kitchenette table, where there is food waiting for me hiding underneath the silver dome. Something is irritating my left ankle; I look down to see a heavily-wired anklet of some sort strapped to me. Lovely, just lovely. I bend down to try and remove it, but no luck. Bastards. I’m sure it’s a tracking device, should I have the good fortune to escape. The intrusion I feel begins to make my blood boil, but I’ll push it aside for now; I need sustenance first. Steam escapes as I lift the lid, and I smell the delicious aroma of scrambled eggs, bacon, and fruit. Mmnn. I don’t hesitate. I sit down and begin to devour everything in sight.
As I sit and eat my breakfast, I finally take full notice of the framed artwork that’s hanging on the wall before me, and gasp. It is the exact same rendition I have displayed on my bedroom wall at home, but on a much, much larger scale. The mysterious and expressionistic scape of land and sea spreads at least four-feet wide and three-feet high in front of me. The sheer size alone is breathtaking, and I know this cost a pretty penny. This one-of-a-kind—or so I’d thought—custom-made collage had to have been done specifically for me, not to mention, this artist typically doesn’t do large pieces. I shudder at the thought that he knows my bedroom. How creepy. How did I not feel someone’s eyes on me? Stalking me? Probably because I’ve always felt safe and protected and thought I never needed to look over my own shoulder. I grew up having other people doing that for me. Well, I won’t ever make that mistake again—if I get the chance.
Since Nick has basically admitted to stalking me over the past few years, he most likely knows what all of my favorite things are. He hit the nail on the head by displaying my favorite piece on the wall. I’m perplexed as to what exactly I am to Nick that he would hang such a rich, elaborate, and expensive piece of mixed media art on the wall for me...in a captive’s cell, no less. Some things are just not adding up.. I can only surmise that these few lavish items surrounding me have been placed here at Nick’s orders. It’s the only thing that makes sense.
I decide to let go of the confusing questions, which are swirling around in my mind, and get lost within the beautiful seascape before me. The ocean water has always centered me, creating an inner peace and calmness within as if I’m part of something eternal. It’s an indescribable fulfillment when I sink my toes in the sand and look out at the horizon. I spent many of my summers at our beach house along the East coast when I was younger, which are full of fond memories. It’s such a huge part of nature, untouched by man, and not only do I love it, I love replicating it with art.
Anytime I’m able to combine mixed media art with ocean-scapes, I’m truly in Heaven. I love to use watercolors, acrylic pigments, and shimmery mica particles of rich exotic colors, and then combine them with layers of different fibers and textures.
This painting before me literally radiates with gold and turquoise colors, which flow flawlessly behind the clear glass frame, and I could get lost in it for hours. After I finish eating, I allow myself to sit at the kitchen table and study the painting for a while longer, escaping to my happy place, and dream of being at the ocean and creating a unique piece of art in my mind.
I find myself rubbing at my stiff neck and realize I’ve let myself lose track of time. I’m sure I’ve been sitting here for at least half an hour. I arch my achy back as I sit in the chair, stretch my stiff arms out to the side, and yawn.
I think back to yesterday when Travis took care of me. I was perplexed when he switched out my clothing, changing me into a fresh set of pajamas. He didn’t ogle me or pause to cop a feel; he exuded nothing but concern for my wellbeing as I laid there like a limp noodle.
I don’t know what had come over me in the exam room, but when I fought against him as he picked me up, and in his deep, stern, unyielding voice, commanded me to stop, it had overridden every thought in my head, and I immediately ceased my struggling. And when he’d demanded me to answer him verbally, the “Yes, sir” had come out of my mouth with no hesitation, accompanied by a heat that had spread through me like a wildfire, making me want to obey his every word. Was it the Blyss? Is that what it does to women once it takes hold in their system?