Cruel Intoxication (Underground Kings 4)

Maybe it’s time I try.

That

has me stopping in the middle of the tunnel and betrayal hits me hard along with guilt. How could I think such a thing on the anniversary of her death? “I’m sorry, Annabeth,” I whisper, and the hiss of my voice bounces off the dirt walls surrounding me.

A few hours later, I come to the end of the tunnel, and there is a ladder built into the dirt wall that allows me to climb to the top. I unlock the latch and push the hidden shelf off to the side. A burst of clean spring air hits me in the face, and I inhale the fresh scent of the river flowing to my right.

This is my home. Isolation.

Until my dying day.

Two

Jolie

I don’t know how long I’ve been here. Time is irrelevant when it’s spent in the dark. It’s cold too. This house doesn’t have electricity, so there is no air conditioning or heat. I can see the daylight through the cracks in the wood, slivers of light between the rotten planks illuminate part of the darkness here and there.

I’m starving. I think this is the third day without food and water, and it’s starting to get to my head. I can’t take anymore abuse. I want to die. I don’t know what this guy wants from me, and I don’t know who he is, but I give up. He wins. I have nothing left.

A few months ago, I had missed my period, and I knew I was pregnant. I never felt so terrified. I thought being kidnapped was the worst thing that could happen to me, but no, once he got his hands on me, the abuse was constant. Eventually, him beating me wasn’t enough, and he tied me down and made small incisions all over my body.

And then that became boring which led to the last thing he could ever do to me.

I hoped I wouldn’t become pregnant, but life hasn’t been kind enough to grant me a break over the last year. I know it’s been at least a year since I’ve been here, but the exact time is blurry to me.

My fear of being pregnant was cut short. I miscarried because of the stress and malnutrition of my body. And now since I look like I’m on the verge of falling over, the man wants nothing to do with me. I’m grateful. Maybe I’ll be able to die in peace.

I don’t want to die, but I don’t know what else is left for me. I don’t beg for my life anymore when he touches me. I don’t ask him to s

top because I know he won’t. It’s been months since I’ve fought for my life. Maybe it’s time I give a damn and start fighting again. I look around the room and squint my eyes, looking for a way out. My head swims when I try to move, but I have to keep trying. It isn’t often that I’m here by myself because I’ve never been weak enough for him to know he can leave me be.

Like now.

I know the door is locked. I heard him lock it this morning. I follow the largest splinter of sunlight coming through the wooden planks, and I lick my dry, cracked lips when I see an inch opening. How have I not noticed that before?

Probably because I haven’t thought about living in a very long time.

If I can yank the boards off, I can slip through the crack and run away. It’s a long shot. I doubt I have the strength, but the more I think about it, the stronger I feel. I can’t die in here. I can’t let this man win. He has already taken so much from me.

It makes me think about the baby I lost, the innocent child that had no clue about his or her father’s insanity, and my heart aches. Don’t get me wrong, I’m equally relieved as I am sad. Does that make me a bad person? I’m not sure. What I do know, the baby is better off because if they ever came into the world, who knows what this man would have done to them. Plus, there part of me believes I would hold resentment if I saw the baby. It’s unreasonable because the poor child is nothing but innocent in this mess, but would I truly want her? Him?

A lot of what-ifs that I do not need to worry about right now because I am no longer pregnant, and I consider it a blessing in disguise.

I fall against my belly and slap my hand on the floor, dragging myself along the rough floorboards. The wood adds scratches to my body, and my nipples tug along the groves and nails poking out of the planks. I wince, but the pain isn’t too bad. I’ve been through worse. I collapse when I get to the part of the room I need to be at, and with shaky arms, I push myself onto my knees. My heart races unsteadily, and I lay a hand across my chest when the world around me begins to swim again. I’m so hungry and thirsty.

“I can do this,” I say to myself, remembering what it was like to read a book whenever I wanted or go to a movie. I want that again. I want my freedom. I miss life. I have to try harder. I used to think someone would find me, that I’d be saved, and all my worries would be over, but if reality has taught me anything, it’s fairy tales don’t exist. Survival lands on my shoulders now, and if I get up, I’ll give this bastard the advantage of killing me, and I won’t allow that to happen.

No more.

I refuse to be victim anymore.

I dip my fingers in the crack of the wood and try to pull. My muscles quiver. I haven’t used them in so long, and I can hardly grip the wood. “God, come on, Jolie,” I say to myself, and my eyes water from the hopelessness and weakness I feel. “I can’t die here. He has taken too much of me.” I bring my other hand through the crack to grip the other side of the board and hold my breath, pulling as hard as I possibly can.

“Ah, come on!” I cry when the wood groans. My eyes widen, and adrenaline blooms in my chest. The boards are coming off. I reposition myself and press my feet against the wall to help with leverage. Once I do that, one side of the board comes free.

I gasp. I stare at the piece of rotten wood in my hand in disbelief. I did it. I actually did it. The board snapped in half and the end is jagged, so the hole isn’t as big as I need it to be. I grab the other side when I hear a door shut, and the vibrations shake the ground. I look over my shoulder and stare at the door with wide eyes when I hear a pounding of footsteps.

Thump.