3. Psychological torture

Chapter three: Psychological torture

Three days, I've been locked up inside these four walls for three days and I'm about to tear my hair out. I have  lost my nerve and sanity a long time ago. The first night I refused to eat dinner and that crazy guy nearly choked me by forcing food into my mouth.

So I look like a human wreck or in any case, a robot programmed to do the basic needs of a human being.

I've never been subjected to psychological torture, but I'm sure this is a lot like it. He doesn't touch me, he hardly speaks to me, I haven't seen another face other than that maniac's. The asshole took my phone and put it only God knows where.

I expected many things. In my mind I came to imagine millions of ways to cause myself the most agonizing pain. However, this desolate silence is a hundred times worse. I don't even remember the sound of my voice anymore. Even my inopportune subconscious has shut up and loneliness attacks me more strongly than ever.

I walk around the room to exercise my cramped muscles. That madman is very mistaken if he thinks I am really going to stay with my arms crossed. As soon as he let his guard down, I'll take my chance and get the hell out of here. I'm sure my friends will be safe if he can't blackmail me.

He may be very Devil, but I'm Leah Falco and at twenty-seven I've been through too much shit to let myself be screwed over by a fiery psychopath.

For the first time since I've been here, I hear a knock on the door, which seems ridiculous considering I don't have the key.

"Good afternoon, honey," a plump old lady with well-groomed black hair enters with a tray in her hands. "I have made a cake with milk jam

and I have brought you a piece, seeing as you haven't eaten much."

It is fortunate that I understand fluid English very well thanks to the years I lived here. Otherwise, I wouldn't understand a single word. The woman speaks too fast and on top of that, she slurs some consonants.

"And you are…?", I ask wrinkling my nose. She's the first person I've seen apart from my captor. And considering that I got tired of yelling the first day, I thought there was no one else in the house.

"Oh, excuse my forgetful manners," she moves to the sofa in the room to put the tray on the coffee table and extend an arm to me, "it comes with age. I'm Josephine, but you can call me Joe. I take care of the house and of Dean."

"Do you work for him?" I scrutinize her carefully. She doesn't seem evil, quite the opposite. However, in this place I do not trust even my shadow.

"You could say so," she gives me a warm smile that reminds me of my dear Mrs. Clarice. Oh sorella, how much I miss you. "Would you try dessert? I don't want him to scold me if it doesn't taste good."

"Haven't you tried it?" I ask cautiously. And if it has any narcotic like the soda which brought me here?

"Yes, but over the years my palate hasn't been the same. Come on," she takes me familiarly by the arm and practically drags me to the sofa, "let's do each other a little company. We don't usually have many tenants in the House."

"I'm not a guest," I clarify curtly without trying the dish.

"Nonsense," she makes a strange gesture with her hands. "You are to me. Dean is not as bad as he insists on being."

'Yes of course. Tell that to the sniper who watches my friends,' I add mentally, even though I didn't correct her. She shows she cares for him and if the feeling is mutual, I may have found my first step towards freedom.

'I just have to earn her'

"Come on," she insists with the dessert, "try it. I guarantee you  it doesn't have any additional ingredients."

I let out a small sigh and spoon up a portion and bring it to my trembling mouth.

The spongy biscuit makes contact with my palate and I find it impossible to contain the pleasurable moan.

For Jesus Christ's mother! How long has it been since I tried a homemade desert?

I think since last Christmas. On Cassie's last day in our apartment she baked chocolate chip cookies and lemon mousse.

Thinking of my friend makes me want to cry and I decide to put her out of my head for the moment, to focus on the divine cake. If it is poisoned, I may well die swallowing it. At least it would be a sweet death, not an agonizing one like my kidnapper has prepared.

This is the best thing that has happened to me in many, many days.

Mrs. Josephine chats animatedly about the city's advantages and sometimes she asks questions about Italy, while I take my time savoring the generous and insufficient slice.

"And have you been working for Dean for a long time?" I ask matter-of-factly, careful not to show my eagerness for information.

"I saw him born," she replies with a shrug.

So that's where attachment comes from... Well, I can't blame her.

"Are you already leaving?" I hold her back when I see her get to her feet.

"Yes, I have many pending things to do and..."

"Take me with you," I cut her off abruptly. I need to get out of here. I need to find a way to escape.