03

Present Day

I don't even have time to object. I feel the prick in my arm again. Almost instantly, consciousness slips away, plunging me into a deep darkness. The last things I see are his wicked gaze and the looming hint of victory on his cyanide lips.

...

I wake up abruptly with a start because a bucket of freezing water has just been dumped over me. The culprit is that damned Russian, who won't stop yelling at the top of his lungs. I barely manage to orient myself; I'm in a bathroom, and not just any bathroom—this place oozes luxury everywhere. There's no trace of that dilapidated room I was in earlier. I'm naked, and it's humiliating to be exposed like this to the wretch of... Aleksander? I think that's his name.

I don't know if much time has passed since the shadows of a forced sleep claimed me. All I know for sure is the sheer torture inflicted by my captor.

"Stop! Why are you doing this to me?!" I blurt out, shivering, terrified I might get hypothermia, though at this point nothing could be worse than what I've already endured.

"Don't ask questions. You have no right. Get in the tub," he demands in a loud voice.

"I-I can shower by myself, please..."

He shakes his head. I feared as much.

For the next few minutes, I have to endure the path of his hands moving all over my body. He doesn't just rub a sponge on my skin; he gropes me shamelessly. He takes advantage of the situation, and out of fear of being beaten, I resign myself to it. A burning tightness grips my chest, causing dyspnea. I have never felt as dirty as I do right now.

"If you follow my rules, your stay here won't be as painful," he asserts. The statement does nothing to soothe my soul.

I will suffer; there's no doubt he'll hurt me anyway—in fact, he already has.

Tears mix with the cold water, my teeth start chattering, and my body trembles from the low temperature. I take a deep breath. After a while, he washes my hair too.

"Stand up," he orders, helping me when he notices I'm struggling to move. "I'll take you to the bedroom. You're going to stay in bed, understand?"

He hands me a towel, and I wrap myself in it the best I can. After he opens the door, I find myself in a room that defies the typical setting of a kidnapping. Everything is bright, modern, and elegant. It's a chamber that exudes arrogance in every element. It feels unreal to be here; disbelief occupies half my brain, still refusing to credit the atmosphere I're breathing.

"Look at me. I don't know how I'm supposed to walk. I'm thirsty, hungry... You can see I can't even take a step," I whisper weakly.

"I'll give you food. Just move," he insists.

The walls combine pastel tones that momentarily offer warmth—warmth that is snatched away the moment my feet touch the grotesque reality. Even though it looks perfect, it isn't; the luxurious bedroom has a hostile purpose, a malevolent objective pointing straight at me. There is a huge black plasma TV, a daybed at the foot of the white bed, matching a set of sofas near a window where satin curtains cover the glass. Finally, my eyes land on the massive bed, accompanied by nightstands with lamps on each.

I abandon my scrutiny. The malignant being beside me has left, abandoning me at the edge of the bed. I sense that many things destined to scar me will happen on that quilt. Processing it now won't make the pain any less devastating, but at least it won't take me by surprise. I know very well I'll end up battered—perhaps dead.

I don't know; how could I know? This whole situation stinks. Hell burns, and now that I'm living it in the flesh, I yearn for salvation. The police are probably looking for me already; maybe Dad and Mom think I'm dead. Going crazy trying to find a way out—nothing comes to mind. My instincts were chained alongside the vigor contained within my being; he absorbed it—that wretched Italian—and now another seeks to inhale my last breath.

And... I want to succumb.

Clack, clack, clack...

That sound detonates inside me, deafening to my sensitive hearing. I'm freezing to death, hugging myself as tightly as I can to generate warmth, but it's not enough. Aleksander tosses me a white nightgown, and nothing else. I won't bother asking for underwear; it's obvious he won't give it to me. Still under his deep gaze, I slip into the fabric, managing to warm my numb muscles.

I dry my hair a little, but I'm losing the thread, my senses. I faint in a snap.

I wake up to a stinging sensation on my face. I touch my cheek; something is sitting right over the injury—a bandage. I gasp, turning my head to the side. All the oxygen vanishes from my lungs when I run into him. He approaches with a glass of water I'm dying to drink; I'm perishing for it.

"Open your mouth. I don't have all day for you," he growls. I comply. The first drop wetting my lips gives me courage, and the first sip brings me back to life. "The doctor checked you. You're not in bad shape. You'll recover; it's just a matter of days. Here, eat this borscht."

I stare suspiciously at the soup, accompanied by a piece of bread. Its color is a deep red; I have no idea what it contains, but I decide to eat it anyway. It's food, after all.

"See you soon. I have other things to do," he explains, walking away without turning to look at me again.

I don't respond. Whatever I'm eating tastes remarkably good—perhaps it's my ravenous appetite making the peculiar liquid irresistible. I sigh on the fifth spoonful, deciding to try the bread and alternate it with the soup. A couple of minutes later, I finish devouring it. I feel better. My wasted state has vanished.