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.
I haven’t seen or heard from the brothers since they dumped me in here, and while that’s probably the best thing to happen to me all day, I’m also at the point where I wish they’d just come and get their bullshit over and done with so they can either let me go or put me out of my misery.
I don’t handle the unknown well. Waiting for the inevitable is what’s going to kill me, but somehow, I think they already know that.
I bet those assholes are sitting up there in their bitch-ass castle, sipping on poison while resting back in their twisted thrones made from the bones of the men, women, and children they’ve slaughtered. Fuck, these assholes should have been born a million years ago. They would have been hailed as ruthless gods, but instead, they’re just known as being fucked in the head.
The cold metal from the door stings my waist as I press myself against it, slamming my hands onto the doorframe and listening to the echoes reverberating off the walls of a long as fuck hallway. “GET ME THE FUCK OUT OF HERE, ASSHOLES,” I scream, my throat burning from the raw intensity of my tone. “WHAT DO YOU WANT WITH ME?”
A harrowing laugh sounds through the small cell, the noise bouncing off the walls in every direction. I spin around, pressing my back against the cell door and flicking my gaze from corner to corner. The laugh was so loud, so real. It sounded as though it came from right behind me, but there’s not another soul in here, just me and my racing heart.
“Who’s there?” I demand, my voice breaking as my knees grow weaker by the second. A loud sob tears from the back of my throat and I slowly begin to sink, my back sliding down the cell door and catching against my bare skin. “Who’s there?”
The laugh sounds again, but this time louder, and I can’t help but feel as though someone is watching me. I’ve searched the cell for hours. There are no cameras, no speakers, no wires, cords, or cables. I’m as alone as can be in this fucked-up little dungeon, but I have to believe that I’m not because the only other alternative is that I’m being haunted by the ghosts of past dungeon guests. Honestly, I’d prefer to deal with the brothers than have that twisted thought confirmed.
Tears well in my eyes and I bury my face into my knees, desperately trying to block out the sounds flying around the room, but when a metallic dragging sound pierces through the dungeon, my back straightens and I fly up off the ground.
I turn, spinning to face the door as my eyes widen with fear.
They’re back.
My heart thunders, my pulse beating loudly in my ears, drowning out the other sounds in the cell. My hunger is completely forgotten and my tired eyes remain locked on the door as my breath hitches.
I instantly start backing up, terrified of what or who is about to come striding through the door. It creaks open and I watch as though it’s happening in slow motion, but I don’t dare stop. I keep moving until my back is flush with the wall behind me, the sharp crevices from the bricks digging into my skin.
The heavy door pushes wider, and where I expect to see light pouring in, there’s nothing but shadows.
I see a haunting darkness moving from behind the door, and as the heavy metal drags against the old stones of the ground, a chill sweeps through me. The door gets wider and wider and with each passing second, I feel the weight of the situation bearing down on me, pressing against my chest and making me wish for sweet relief.