I gasp.
“Check on the bitch! Looks like she’s moving.” A deep voice shouts this in Spanish. I barely comprehend it at first. My mind is in such a fog. “It’s been two days now.”
Two days?
By pressing my lips together and moving my head a little more, I get a slight view of my hands. My wrists are bound tight. Almost like shackles are around them, but I was right. It’s rope.
My wrists are raw and red. There is fresh blood, and it stings the more I struggle.
Tears burn my eyes, but I don’t let them stop me. I don’t know where I am, but I pick up my wrists and drop my head, biting into the wide, thick rope. None of the strands come off though.
The heavy footsteps drift down the hallway, getting closer and closer to where I am. I can hear the man breathing. I can smell his stench…or maybe it’s my own.
I hear keys jingle and then a throat being cleared.
“Stop,” someone says, and I’m surprised it’s in English. I gasp, immediately dropping my wrists. I move my head to look around, even though I can’t see a damn thing. I see the floor and that’s it. “He’s close,” the person whispers. It’s a man’s voice. “Pretend you’re still unconscious. Now.” His last word is a demand, but I don’t hesitate.
I drop on my side, and it makes my brain ache, but I shut my eyes and steady my breathing. I try and remember the position I was in when I was asleep, but I can’t. The footsteps get closer, my breaths thickening beneath the black hood.
“Fuck,” the man snaps. “Bitch is still out cold.” The keys jingle some more and then some sort of gate or door screeches on the hinges. The footsteps come closer and then they stop.
One of his feet nudges me in the belly, and I try not to make a noise. I don’t dare swallow or breathe. The man sighs and after several moments, his footsteps are going in the opposite direction. The gate screeches, something clinks, and then his footsteps continue down the hallway.
I don’t exhale until I hear the other door shut.
Thank God.
I push up by my bound hands to sit up as much as possible. I’m wary, though. I now know there is someone else here. Someone watching me.
“Who are you?” I ask.
The person doesn’t speak, and I think I must be crazy—imagining the voice, that is, until he speaks again.
“Ronaldo.”
“Ronaldo? Why are you in here? Are you one of them?”
He scoffs. “You’re a fucking idiot.”
“What?” I spit, grimacing beneath the hood.
“If I was one of them, do you think I’d be in here?”
“I don’t know. You might be a guard or something.”
“If I was a guard, I wouldn’t have helped you.”
I remain silent for a split second. I drop my head and study pieces of my torn wedding gown—the pieces I can see—and my eyes instantly burn when I remember it all.
The blood. The tears. The horror.
Fresh tears come streaming down as I touch the silk, my bodice.
A heavy feeling fills my veins and then I remember the most important memory of all. Toni.
His eyes.
“Gia… baby.” Those were his very last words.
I sniffle.
“Ah, shit,” Ronaldo groans from wherever he sits. “This is why I didn’t want them to put a female in here with me. Bunch of fucking crybabies.”
“Hey—fuck you!” I snap.
“Ohh…and a feisty one at that. First one I’ve encountered here.”
Confusion floods me. “First one you’ve encountered? How long have you been here?”
“Six months.”
“Six?” I gasp.
“Yep.”
“And they haven’t tried to kill you or anything?”
“If you could see me, you’d know they’ve done much worse. Killing is easy. Torture is…well, torture. Plain and simple.”
My eyes expand beneath the hood. I wish I could see who this mystery person is.
“Are you tied up?”
“No need,” he mumbles.
“What do you mean?”
He doesn’t say anything.
“Well, do you think you could take this hood off of me? I can’t reach high enough.”
“I could…but I won’t.”
“Why the hell not?”
“I don’t want to see you. When I get out of this place I don’t want to remember a fucking thing. Though it is nice to talk cordially to someone after so long.”
I swallow thickly, but the spit gets stuck in my throat. My mouth is so dry, as well as my throat. I lick my lips. “Is there water?”
“You shouldn’t drink it,” he says. “You’ll have to piss…and there is no pot to piss in here.”
“Where have you been going?”
He doesn’t respond, and frankly I’m glad. I’m terrified to know the answer, but as I sniff a little harder, I catch the stench of urine…and something else unpleasant.
“God,” I groan. “I can’t be in here for six months. I didn’t even do anything wrong.”
“That’s what we all think.”
“But I didn’t. I swear.”
“Sometimes it’s not about you, but how you are connected to someone they know or need information from. My guess is you are here as bait or some shit.”