Total pages in book: 84
Estimated words: 77841 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 389(@200wpm)___ 311(@250wpm)___ 259(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 77841 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 389(@200wpm)___ 311(@250wpm)___ 259(@300wpm)
“Eat,” he commands again. I look at him this time.
“If I wanted to waste my calories, I’d do it on something enjoyable, like banana Laffy Taffy, not toast, oatmeal, and greasy bacon.” Keeping the ire out of my tone this time is impossible.
The turn of his head is slow, his eyes serious and menacing, but he doesn’t issue another command. The demand to eat is etched in every feature on his face. Knowing I’ve pushed the boundaries enough today, I reach down and grab a piece of toast, somewhat grateful that it seems to be wholegrain.
“I like eggs,” I confess after chewing and swallowing a small bite.
“But not those eggs?” he asks, pointing down at a clump of scrambled yellow mess.
“Not really,” I say, instead of complaining further. If the toast is already cold and I can see the top layer of oatmeal already drying out, I’d never be able to stomach those eggs. I don’t know how he’d respond if I puked on his floor.
The toast is dry in my throat, but he picks up the single cup of coffee off the tray when I go to reach for it. “The water is yours,” he says and I try my best not to glare at him when he lifts the coffee to his lips. With more attitude than I intended, I pick up the cup of water and drink more than half of it. “You need protein,” he says after a long minute. “So either eat the bacon or eat the eggs.”
Gingerly, I lift a strip of bacon from the plate and take a hearty bite. It’s delicious. Thick and crispy. It’s nothing like the paper-thin slices of turkey bacon the chef adds to my breakfast plate every morning. I don’t groan in pleasure as I swallow but I want to. What I can’t manage to do is scrunch my nose and pretend that it’s horrible. I ignore the faint smile on his lips as I toss the second half into my mouth. He scoops bite after bite of eggs into his mouth, leaving the remainder of bacon for me.
He doesn't say a word. He simply waits patiently until I’m done eating before he stands and carries the tray out of the room. The sound of the lock engaging fills the room and I know I’d never be able to escape that way. I war with myself on what to do next. I don’t know how long he’ll be gone. I could be in here alone for two minutes or it could be two hours. But I can’t not take a chance at escape. He didn’t re-chain me to the floor and I don’t know if this is a test or not.
The second I gather enough courage, I bolt up from the sofa and race across the room. I’m not greeted with sunlight or darkness when I pull the curtains back. How is that even possible? I gasp, my hands meeting nothing but sheetrock and paint. I dart to the next window, ripping the curtains back once again. Walls. It’s nothing but walls.
I race around the room, checking behind all four sets of curtains, but there are no windows. There’s nothing there. It’s just wall. My heart is racing and tears burn my eyes. I want to sob. There’s no escape. There’s no getting away from him. I crumple to the floor and pull my knees up to my chin and cry. It’s the only thing I have power over right now. I don’t have control over my thoughts, my emotions, or my body.
I don’t bother looking up when the bedroom door opens again. It’s only been a matter of days and already I’m defeated.
“What’s wrong?” he asks. But the tone of his voice says that he is well aware of what I’ve discovered. It wouldn’t be that hard to figure out. I’ve got my back against a curtain where a window should be. I look up at him, tears still streaming down my cheeks. But there’s no sympathy in his eyes. He doesn’t feel sorry for me. Hell, he doesn’t even seem pleased that I’m upset. There are no emotions on the man’s face.
“The windows are fake,” I tell him, as if this isn’t his house, as if he didn’t know. “Why are there no windows in this room?”
He stares at me for a long moment, as if he’s trying to figure out an explanation. But he simply shrugs. “There are no windows in this entire house.” I stare at him. “It’s just safer.”
“Safer?” I ask weakly. “Who do you need protection from?” My mind races with the idea that there are people out there willing to go up against a man like him. Are there worse people in the world than men who have abducted women and forced them to come?