Total pages in book: 78
Estimated words: 91161 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 456(@200wpm)___ 365(@250wpm)___ 304(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 91161 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 456(@200wpm)___ 365(@250wpm)___ 304(@300wpm)
“Shut the fuck up!” he roared, his explosive rage effectively silencing my scrambled monologue.
My stomach twisted and turned again. This time I closed my eyes until the pain passed. I tried to wet my cracked lips with my tongue, but it was also dry and hung heavy in my mouth. King reached down and touched my cheek with the pad of his thumb. I was so involved in trying not to pass out that I barely registered that he was touching me. After a few moments with nothing but the sound of my heart beating in my ears, King abruptly stood up and walked out, slamming the door behind him.
I was his prisoner.
I was either going to die of hunger, fear, or at the hands of King. But the how wasn’t important. It was the when I was waiting for, because I was certain I wasn’t ever going to leave that house again.
At least not alive.
Chapter Seven
Doe
I was drifting somewhere between awake and unconscious when the door opened and heavy footsteps approached the bed. Something metal was set on the nightstand, clanking and rattling as it settled. It was the smell that brought me back to the land of the living as abruptly as if smelling salts had been waved under my nose.
Food.
The metal of the cuffs bit into my wrist as I lunged for the tray that was set just beyond my reach. I let out a frustrated shrill-sounding scream.
“Easy now, killer,” a voice said. I hadn’t noticed the guy leaning on the dresser at the foot of the bed, his arms and legs crossed in front of him. I recognized him from the party the night before. Only when his eyes traveled down to my bare breasts, I remembered that I was still nude from the waist up. I quickly covered myself by balling up as small as I could, huddling close to the metal headboard.
He smiled and slowly approached me.
“No!” I shouted when he got close enough to extend his hand out to me.
“No?” he asked. “So you don’t want this?” He picked up the tray and set it on the bed in front of me.
“No, no, I do. I do want it,” I assured him. I sat up again and winced when my injured ear accidentally rubbed against the metal headboard. If it was food he was offering, my modesty was going to have to wait until after my belly was full. I removed my arm from my breasts and reached out to slide the tray closer to me. When I saw what was on it, I paused.
What the hell?
There were two plates. One held a sandwich of some sort, wrapped in white paper, a sticker with the name of the deli held the wrapping together. The other plate was not really a plate but a mirror. On it, white powder, cut into three lines along with a rolled up dollar bill. Next to it was a plastic Ziploc bag containing a needle¸ spoon, lighter, and another smaller baggie filled with another type of darker looking powder.
“What is all this?” I asked.
“Breakfast,” he said straight-faced. “You get to choose one item from the tray and one only.” He sat down across from me on the bed.
“Is this a joke?” Who the hell would choose drugs for breakfast?
Nikki, I thought.
“Choose wisely, girl.” He pointed to the tray.
I grabbed the sandwich and tore off the wrapper before he could finish his sentence. I took a monster bite that contained both sandwich and paper.
“Slow down,” he warned. I detected amusement in his warning. I ignored him, choking when I tried to swallow down half-chewed bites, but the feeling of chewing and swallowing was euphoric. I kept going until the sandwich was completely in my stomach.
I didn’t need drugs. I was high on food.
I wiped at the mess I made on my face and licked my fingers clean. He handed me a glass of water, and I downed it in three big gulps. I sat back on the bed and patted my bare stomach, no longer caring that I was practically naked in front of this stranger. I opened my mouth to speak when a sudden wave of nausea washed over me. I sat up and held a hand over my mouth.
“What’s wrong?” he asked, as I frantically looked around for something I could throw up in. I didn’t see anything within arm’s reach, but it only took him a second to realize what it was I needed. He leapt up and grabbed a metal wastebasket from the corner of the room and ran back, just in time for me to empty the entire breakfast into the basket. Every little bit of barely-chewed, undigested sandwich came back up in waves until once again my stomach was completely empty.
“I told you to slow the fuck down.” He walked to the far side of the room and opened the window, tossing the entire basket out. “I’ll hose that out later.”
I never cried when I woke up in the hospital and couldn’t even recall my name. I didn’t cry when I was told I might never regain my memory. I didn’t cry when I was thrown into a group home full of perverts. I didn’t cry when I ran away and had to live on the streets. I didn’t cry when I came to the realization that using my body was the only way I was going to be able to survive. I didn’t cry when a bullet grazed my ear. I didn’t cry when I was handcuffed to a bed by a tattooed psychopath who I was certain was going to kill me.
But losing the first full stomach I had in weeks?
I cried.
Not just a few little tears. I sobbed. Loud and long. Shoulder shaking. No end in sight.
Ugly cry.
Hope. It’s something I hadn’t yet given up, but right then and there, I was ready to throw in the towel. I didn’t care if I stayed attached to that bed until I died and the skin rotted away from my bones.