Page 42 of Freeing Emily

I slam my hands over my ears and close my eyes.

“You’re not real. You’re not real. You’re not real,” I mutter repeatedly. The air in the room is thick with desperation, hopelessness, and death. So much death.

I hear the muffled sounds of metal clanking and screams through the barrier I created with my hands.

The hairs on my arms stand on end as the sensation of eyes watching me coats my skin.

“Go away. You’re not real,” I whimper.

A shriek so loud, it shakes me to my core, breaks through my barrier and I choke down a sob.

Then… nothing.

All the sounds and feelings that have flooded my system cease all at once.

My mind is no longer my own and I don’t know how much more of this torture I can handle.

I’m pushed into the communal showers after my twelfth day in The Hole. The dim lights of the room burn my retinas and it’s hard to keep my eyes open. I can’t decipher if the faces I see are from past or present.

The icy water pelts my skin. My teeth chatter violently, and I wrap my hands around myself.

“You get five minutes,” the guard growls but his beady dark eyes still travel down my body in hunger, and I choke down the bile I feel climbing up my throat.

I lather myself with the small bar of soap and scrub my skin until I’m satisfied that I’ve taken off the first layer. There are a few young women in here with me. Their faces are shadowedin deep-rooted sadness and their eyes are red-rimmed and downcast.

The fissures in my heart widen every time I’ve seen the others. Their bodies are painted with bruises in different healing phases and are pale from lack of sunlight and malnutrition.

I lather the soap in my hair and the suds tangle my strands. Tipping my head back, the water cascades down my hair and washes the soap away. I run my fingers through it and feel the sharp pain of the roots being ripped from my scalp. The intertwined strands create a spider-like mass that falls to the floor.

I stare at the pile and my eyes burn from tears gathering and grief growing in my heart.

Feeling the loss of hair seems so pathetic considering the entire situation I’m in. How could I feel pain from the loss of something that will grow back? But the more I think about it, the more I realize it’s more the loss of another piece of myself because of this place.

“Time’s up,” the guard grunts and we jump at the sudden sound of his voice.

He throws us old towels that are littered with holes and stains. The material scrapes against my skin with each pass. Once we’re relatively dry, we’re handed acleanset of ragged clothes that smell of mildew. The fabric sticks to my damp skin.

We walk behind the guard as he takes everyone to their cells. I’m the last to be locked up. The palm of his hand presses between my shoulder blades and he pushes me with a force that causes me to stumble and fall. The concrete digs into my knees and I wince.

I bite my tongue to refrain from crying out. I won’t give him the satisfaction of seeing how his treatment affects me. The door slams behind me and I hear the sound of the lock engaging.

Only then do I let the emotion break through, and a tear slides down my cheek.

I cling to Liam’s neck as he runs toward the SUV. The scent of his cologne is mixed with the coppery tang of blood and my stomach twists at the stench.

They’re dead.

My dad and Ryan are dead.

The scene replays in my head in a never-ending loop. Shock and heartache overwhelm my system.

I’m struggling to grasp the reality of what happened.

“Are you hurt?” Liam says. His voice is thick with panic and concern.

I silently shake my head. I can’t gather the ability to speak. The words are trapped deep within me and refuse to rise.

He gently sets me on my feet and opens the passenger door. My eyes remain locked on the ground as he guides me toward my seat. My movements are on autopilot when I climb into the vehicle.