Total pages in book: 73
Estimated words: 70225 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 351(@200wpm)___ 281(@250wpm)___ 234(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 70225 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 351(@200wpm)___ 281(@250wpm)___ 234(@300wpm)
I gasp for breath, struggling to sit up. My stomach is sore and my chest hurts like hell, but that pain doesn’t amount to the power I feel right now.
I stare at Ronaldo beneath my eyelashes, dangling the pocketknife in front of me.
When he sees it, his smile grows so wide I think his face might break.
“Damn. Didn’t think you had it in you.”
He’s surprised…
He shouldn’t be.
This is only the beginning.
Chapter Seven
Day 6
Around dawn, the white haired man comes in with a tray of food. There’s something different about the food today. It’s not slop. It’s not cold or frozen. It doesn’t look like it will give me explosive diarrhea.
It looks…delicious.
There is enough for two people, and when he places it down on the floor, we inch in closer to see what it is exactly. Toast, a boiled egg, and slices of watermelon. Granted, the toast is dry, but that’s okay. I’ll still eat it.
“Eat,” the man demands. “And don’t waste any of it.”
He walks out without looking back, locking the door. Ronaldo and I look at each other with confused expressions, well I’m confused more than he is.
“They’ve stepped up. They only do that when he’s returned,” Ronaldo murmurs. And then he cocks an eyebrow. “Are you ready?”
I tap my left breast, where I have the pocketknife hidden. “I am.”
After we eat the meal that honestly has made me feel like a brand new person, I kindly ask Ronaldo to turn away so I can pee. I’m not going back to that damn bathroom. I’d rather pee in this corner, which is exactly what I should have done from the start.
It was rather hard for him to eat. I assumed he didn’t eat the food they brought because he couldn’t. With no hands, he had to bend forward and add weight to his nubs and bite into the food like an injured dog. His was practically eating from the ground. As for the drink…well, I helped him take a few sips. I didn’t want to know how he managed to drink anything with no hands.
He rests on his back and then rolls over to his left side. “You know if this goes south, he’ll kill you himself.”
“I don’t care.”
“You’re prepared to die?” His voice shifts, amused.
“I don’t have anything else to lose. Death would be my pleasure.” I wince as I tug on the zipper of the dress. It’s chafing into my skin now.
“Just make sure you do it right.”
“I will. You don’t have to keep telling me.”
Ronaldo rolls flat on his back and looks at me. His eyes are hard and serious, and without his hair on his face, he looks like a completely different person.
“If you get lucky and he decides to bring you in,” he starts, sighing, “make sure you get me out of this place. I don’t want to die in here. Don’t forget about me.”
I don’t blink as our eyes hold. He has been through so much already. I don’t know why he is here to begin with, but from what I know, I think he’s learned his lesson. And it can’t be as bad as being held captive and having your arms chopped off—suffering daily. No one deserves this kind of treatment but the men that put us in here. Ronaldo seems like a good guy. I’m sure whatever he did was a simple mistake that got blown out of proportion.
“I will,” I whisper, stepping closer to him. “I promise.”
We don’t hear much until sunset.
It has been eerily quiet all day. Besides that one appearance from the white-haired man, none of them have come back to do their two-hour checks.
We didn’t hear any loud laughing or boasting. Didn’t smell any cigar smoke or microwaved noodles.
Today, things have shifted.
But it’s as soon as the sun has set when we hear voices.
I perk up, clutching the knife in hand. There is one voice reporting something in Spanish. It’s quick and deep. It sounds like the white-haired man.
Something creaks, and various amounts of footsteps are coming down the hallway. I’m not sure how many there are. It sounds like a lot of people, though.
With each of their steps, my heart is pounding in my chest.
Thu-thunk. Thu-thunk. Thu-thunk.
My sweaty palm is still wrapped around the knife, my eyes focused on the cell door. Ronaldo is in the very far corner, as far away from the door as possible.
The footsteps finally stop. I don’t look up all the way, so all I see are their shoes through the iron bars. There are twelve sets. All of them are wearing black boots—all of them but one.
That one is wearing very expensive leather dress shoes.
Gradually, my line of sight pulls up, taking in the light brown dress pants covering strong, thick legs, and the black button-down shirt, barely hiding the strong arms and broad shoulders.