Total pages in book: 139
Estimated words: 126522 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 633(@200wpm)___ 506(@250wpm)___ 422(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 126522 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 633(@200wpm)___ 506(@250wpm)___ 422(@300wpm)
I try to decipher every little sound that comes through the cell, wondering what each noise could be or how far away it is. I don’t know if mentally trying to map this place out will help me, but my only priority is to escape this hell hole any way I can. It’s a long shot, but it’s the only one I’ve got.
Minutes turn into hours, and when a bright light shines directly into my eyes, I glance up through the small window to see the sun high in the sky. It’s already midday and I haven’t had any interaction with the psychos upstairs, but I know they’re still here. I can hear them wandering around.
A low growl ripples through my stomach and my hands clamp down around my waist to silence it. Although I haven’t eaten properly in six months, the hollow ache in my stomach reminds me of my last pitiful spoon of ice cream for dinner last night. I’ve already lost more weight than what’s comfortable since my dad turned my shit upside down, but it’s been a good twenty-four hours since I’ve eaten anything substantial. I need a real meal if I’m going to sustain even an ounce of energy to stay alive, but something tells me that a meal is something that I won’t be coming by anytime soon.
They want me weak. What’s the point of having a prisoner and then giving them the resources to help keep them from falling apart? These guys know what they’re doing, and while this is certainly my first rodeo, it’s not theirs.
I let out a heavy sigh. I was friends with the weird kid obsessed with death during my first years of high school, and she would always tell me strange and wonderful facts about death. I never thought her odd little facts would ever be something I would think of again, but sitting here in my little cell, I’m remembering it all. Starvation isn’t the way I want to go. I need my food. I need my energy. I need to get the fuck out of here.
A soft thumping sounds through the ceiling and my back straightens as I listen. It’s repetitive and almost … rhythmic, yet there’s something so hollow and broken about it. It continues, getting faster and faster, but as I listen closely, I realize that the sound isn’t moving. It’s coming from one spot rather than traveling through the building.
I strain a little harder, moving toward the door of my crappy little dungeon cell and pressing my ear up against it. I hear the familiar sound of a bass drum mixed in with the rhythmic tones of a high-hat and snare. I quickly realize that it’s not someone being murdered with a jackhammer but one of the brothers playing the drums.
I pull back from the door, shaking my head. The last thing I need is to be picturing these psychopaths as normal people and giving them human qualities. The DeAngelis brothers are monsters through and through, and the exact moment I start humanizing them is the moment that I lose the game I never wanted to play.
3
Drip. Drip. Drip. Drip.
“Fucking hell,” I groan, slapping my hands over my ears as I lay back on my hard bed. “Make it stop.”
The dripping started a little over an hour ago and it’s been grinding on my nerves ever since. I’ve searched my cell like a maniac trying to find the source of the drip, but it’s useless. There’s no puddle on the ground, no water in the small sink, even the plumbing pipes are as dry as my pussy has been over the last few months. You know, besides those lonely nights with Tarzan, but now even that’s been taken away from me.
I’m more than convinced that this dripping sound is some bullshit form of torture done by the DeAngelis brothers, it has to be. There’s probably some hidden speaker in here and they’re intent to drive me insane with it. The small sink probably isn’t even hooked up to a water source.
Fuck this and fuck the DeAngelis brothers.
Drip. Drip. Drip. Drip.
“FUUUUUCK.”
I clench my jaw and press my hands over my ears. I’m not cut out for a life of torture. I was created for the sole purpose of getting my rocks off in the privacy of my bedroom and scowling at assholes. That’s where my skills lie. This bullshit right here is way out of my realm of capabilities.
The drip doesn’t ease up and I throw myself off the shitty bed, ignoring the dull ache in my stomach and the way that my eyeballs seem to hang out of my head. I’ve been trapped in this little dungeon for well over twelve hours now, and I’m quickly reaching the end of my patience. I’m hungry, tired, and pissed off.