94 — DRILLING SOME SENSE INTO HIM

SILVAN

“Sir, you need to see a doctor.” Michael says, his face twisted in a deep frown as he paces outside my cell while urgently scrolling through his iPad.

It’s almost thirty minutes since the NYPD chief of police and his men threw me into this dirty, square entrapment.

My skin crawls as I examine the damp, algae-infested crack in the walls. There’s a brown, badly scrubbed stain on the floor — it looks suspiciously like dried blood.

Bile rises in my throat and darkness dances at the edges of my vision, but I close my eyes and count to ten, willing my panic attack to recede.

Ugly memories torment me, clawing their way through the dark corners of my mind. My fingers clench into fists and I whisper into the silence;

“More than twenty years have passed, Silvan. Everything is under control.”

“Sir, did you hear me?” Michael repeats, obviously exasperated. “Your wound might get infected if you keep refusing medical help.”

My eyes follow a tiny millipede as it makes its way across the slim