Corrupt Kingdom

It’s like I’m a stalker, or at least that is how I feel, as I sit at the table and just observe.

It must be hours that I watch her.

A part of me is hoping if I stay long enough, she will turn around and say “surprise, I’m here to help you.”

That won’t happen, but a part of me is so desperate to believe that, so I just watch as she cooks and then sections off the food into small plastic containers for me to eat.

One. Two. Three. Four. I lost count after ten because it’s too depressing to think about. If she has to cook that much food, then there is no way he’s coming back for me today or tomorrow.

There is no way anyone is coming for me for days, at least.

I must have lost track of time because the next thing I know, the woman, who I have to assume works for Cyrus as a cook, is standing beside me. She has a plate in her hand.

She tries to hand it to me.

But I shake my head.

“No.” My voice is more forceful than I intend, but I need to get my point across. I am not eating.

She pushes the plate at me again, rambling something in her foreign tongue.

“No.”

This time, she places the plate on the table, but I don’t touch it. I don’t even acknowledge it sitting in front of me; instead, I turn my head blatantly to look away. Then I lift my hand.

The lady stares at me, and then she lifts her hand to me, the one with the fork in it. The movement makes the sleeves of her shirt pull back, and that’s when the breath leaves my body.

On her exposed skin are scars.

Deep scars. But also old scars. It looks like someone sliced her forearm open.

It feels like snakes are crawling up my body as the ramifications of what those scars can mean beat down inside my brain.

Is she like me?

Was she kidnapped?

Did the man who took me make those marks on her?

I can feel bile running up my throat and coating my tongue. I need to swallow a few times and will myself to breathe in through my nose to make sure I don’t throw up right here on the kitchen table.

My hand lifts to touch her. I expect her to move away like last time, but she doesn’t. She just stares at me as I take her hand in mine.

“Help me,” I say for what must now be the billionth time.

Again, she talks, but there is no way to get my point across, so I drop her hand. If she won’t help me, there is only one person who can, and that person is myself. I just need a plan.

Any plan.

Don’t eat.

If I don’t eat, he’ll have only two choices—come here or let me die. It’s a big risk, but it’s the only chance I have.

I won’t eat, not until I speak to Cyrus.

“No food. Not until phone. Not until he comes,” I say as I stand, making my back appear ramrod straight. There must be a way for her to get in touch with him.

I head back to my room, and once inside it doesn’t take long for my body to object to my new approach on my kidnapping. My stomach sounds like an earthquake is happening inside it.

Rumbling and shaking.

It takes every bit of resistance to object.

But this is a hunger strike.

I have no choice.

As time passes, the pain doesn’t get any better. I was never good at going hungry. As a kid, before my mom faded away, she would joke that when I hadn’t eaten in a long time, I would become angry and hostile to everyone around. Seems not much has changed over the years. Now starving, I want to throw something to make the cramps subside. Instead of being destructive, I throw my body on the bed and try to sleep.

It might hurt to lie down, but at least if I’m out cold, I won’t feel the pains any longer.

Unfortunately, the plan is bad. Before I can second-guess myself, I’m standing in the kitchen with the fridge open.

Fuck this.

I can eat if I want to, and he’ll never know. Or will he?

A thought pops into my head as I stand there with the cold air hitting my face and stomach groaning. What if there are cameras?

He will see me eat, and then there is no strike. He won’t come.

Making sure I don’t move too much, I pop open one lid. My whole torso is inside the fridge. The slight chance that he can see it here is worth taking the smallest bite. Using two fingers, I take a tiny scoop of the chicken salad she made. The food tastes amazing against my tongue, making my mouth salivate.