Page 33 of When Sinners Fear
She sniffs and shuffles. “Anything. Just talk. Life out there. Something.” I frown and think, trying to find something that takes us away from here to a world out there. She doesn’t want any of my world, that’s for damn sure. “I’m just … the soda looks good. And I’m scared.”
It sure does.
She's not drinking it, though.
“We’ve got a place up in Cuba. White crystal sands, turquoise ocean.” I stare into the gloom, imagining it. “Still water, you know? You can walk out for a long way and it's only chest deep. I haven’t been there for years. Dante’s there now. Or he was.”
“Dante?”
“Brother. A maid comes in and cooks, or she used to back then. I must have been about twenty last time I was there. Huge spread of food under the veranda, wind blowing lightly.” I shift, wincing at the flare of pain in my ribs. “It's real damn warm. It was nice there. Soothing, even for my constant mind.”
She rests her head on her hands and tries getting comfortable, still curled up tight. “Sounds it. I’ve never been to the beach.”
“Never?”
“No. Too busy studying. I’ve never lived any life other than that. I should have, don’t you think?”
A dark chuckle ebbs through me. “My thoughts aren’t worth shit, Peyton. Certainly not for you. We’re different worlds. Different people.”
Big eyes gaze at me, all soft and pretty despite all this. “But yours and mine are all we’ve got here. Our thoughts. Our wants. Our hope. If I can’t have yours, I’ve only got mine, and they’re not great right now. I need something.” Her knees scrunch higher, and her feet stretch against the ground. “I don't know who you are out there.” She doesn't want to know, either.
I sigh. “You should rest.”
“You think anyone’s coming for us? Your brother maybe? Any more siblings?” I don’t answer, because as much as I know they’ll be looking for me, there’s no chance in hell they’ll be able to find me unless someone’s out there negotiating. I doubt that’s Reed’s plan here. Hurting me like this isn’t part of a negotiation. “Okay. Can you just keep talking, please then? More about the beach. More about a life I haven’t lived.”
So I do. Because if that helps her survive this – helps her deal with what I’m doing to her – I’ll give what I can. I talk about family and life back then for her, about nice days and everything that isn't this. It’s comforting, I guess. It’s something other than here.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
PEYTON
Idon’t know if I’m numb, if the nerve synapses to my brain are damaged, or if I’m just too far gone to process the pain anymore, but it doesn’t hurt like it used to – it’s dull and achy now. Not sharp and acute.
But that sensation is everywhere. My mind is filled with pain, and I’m fighting against being dragged under by its continuous presence just to feel a little reprieve – some peace. Knox’s words helped. The images and pictures he put in my mind gave me a glimmer of hope. The beach – something I’ve never been interested in before – is now something I feel desperate to visit.
It’s absurd. All of this is, but that’s just the reaction to the lack of REM sleep and water. Cognitive function, neurotransmitter levels, and other functions are all impaired. Our bodies will start to shut down, not just from the abuse but the lack of nutrients we need to survive. We might not know exactly how long we’ve been in here, but by the limited amount of food and water, and our bodies’ reaction, it’s been more than a few days now. We’re sorely lacking in what we need to stay alive and healthy. Our basic biology is something we can’t avoid, much like the abuse that Knox dishes out.
When I think over his actions and my reaction, it churns in my stomach. He’s done despicable things. He’s taken things from me that will forever be lost, and I doubt I’ll ever be whole again because of it. But, the little whispers between us and the held-too-long gazes argue a different story. They tell me he’s with me and feeling everything I am. And with the threat of a bullet or suffering under his hand, I choose his hand every time, even if it’s excruciating.
Movement is hard, and finding a comfortable position is impossible, so I settle for the path of least pain. My back is still sore from the whip that blazed over my skin, so I stay on my side and turn gently. The salvation I first sought in my mind is harder to find as time drags on. It’s physically harder for me to think anymore. Where my processes and questions used to be so comforting, it’s now dizzying and confusing. Order has started to warp into chaos, and everything is distorted. That’s why hearing Knox’s voice has helped. It’s grounded me and given me something to focus on, but it’s also furthered my confusion over my feelings for him.
There should be no feelings aside from dread and fear.
But there are. Softness and relief and comfort edge around the pain.
The sound of the door creaking open causes my body to flinch and tense. It’s an automatic response now – an effective Pavlov’s conditioning response. I should be exhibiting that same response to Knox. He’s been the one to hurt me, to inflict the beating and torture. But that’s not how I feel. He’s not the one I shy away from, and that causes me as much distress as the thought of drinking that drink.
Why am I not more frightened of Knox?
I can't rely on my rational mind to tell me the right thing anymore because when he stands as my abuser, I see him as my only hope.
There’s no bolt being pulled loose on the cage, and I crack my eye to see who came in and if they’re still here. The scrape of something being placed on the floor sets my nerves on edge, but then they disappear with no words spoken. I look over and see a metal canteen, like one from a camping trip, sitting just on the other side of the bars. Like the dog I’m being treated as, I crawl over to investigate. My eyes look around to see if Knox has one, but he doesn’t.
The colour of the liquid is hard to decipher in the gloom, and bringing my nose closer, it doesn’t smell. “Is it safe?” I ask.
“Who the fuck knows. But I doubt they’d try to trick us. Where’s the fun in that?” His voice sounds defeated and sets something terrifying off in my mind, but I shut it down.
I dip my fingers into the cool liquid and bring them to my lips. It stings, the cuts still raw and swollen, but I lick them anyway. It tastes like water, so I scoop up another couple of drops and tip them to my mouth. We can’t even drink these properly; instead, we’re forced to lap at them as best we can.