Ford
THERE'S NOTHING I CAN DO.
As I sit here on this bed that features a shitload of mysterious stains of varying hues, I feel powerless in an extreme consumption. And it's not much of a bed, but more of a mattress that's been pushed into one corner of the room. Opposite me, there's another mattress in a similar state, and I know all too acutely that it's reserved for Genevieve when she arrives. The chains and shackles that rest peacefully on her bed torment me.
I've been praying to a God I don't really believe in that she'll never make it here. That she's safe and escaped from this world of corruption and lethal fire. I've said it before—I still stand by it—but she shouldn't be burning in the pits of hell with me. She should be living it large surrounded by those who love her and will always have her best interests at heart. Those that will undoubtedly treat her infinitely better than I ever could.
My breathing becomes laborious as the ire pulses through my body at lightning speed, spicing my mind. My head's been a lethal what-if tornado since the revelation broke to Genevieve of her biological family, but now my only companion is my mind. I don't even have a shadow in this windowless room that boasts a pathetic light bulb dangling from the ceiling. It blinks occasionally, flickering and waning before brightening again, but it's weak, and it's an endless painstaking cycle to endure.
When I first woke up—however long ago that was, fucking hell—I came to with the horrifying realization that each wrist and ankle have been shackled on a longish and thick chain to the wall. It seems some sort of homemade contraption, and once I felt able to push myself up and balance on precariously trembling limbs, I shuffled forwards for as long as the industrial-like chain permitted it.
It doesn't quite reach halfway in the room, and I think that's intentional.
When I attempted it, my hands were tugged behind me and my feet physically couldn't scoot any closer. The thick metal dug into my wrists and ankles, and after a few seconds of the pain, I yielded, returning to the bed. The chain pooled around me and I rested back against the wall, knees bent.
If I have to guess, Genevieve's chains will mirror mine. She won't reach halfway either, and it's to remind us that we can't be together. Both physically and mentally, I assume.
This room is too warm and my body flushes, coated in a slick sheen of sweat. My T-shirt sticks to my chest and the discomfort is agonising knowing I can't do anything to aid it.
I don't know how much time passes next, but something rapidly perks me up, alerting me. I strain my neck for a moment, body absolutely still. And that's when I hear it.
The sound is faint but suddenly I perceive it.
It's a car engine.
It has to be. I'm sure of it.
Hope inflates my chest and I sit up expectantly, despite windows being absent in this room. But the car engine is approaching, and I know exactly when the engine's been killed. Carson's back. Has he got Genevieve with him? The thought distresses me, angers me, but I won't know until he's near.
For the most part, I can't distinguish any voices, and there doesn't seem to be any indicators of a struggle. But I don't know whether this wall to my left has the exterior wall on its other side, or whether this room is deeply rooted in whatever building I'm situated in. Whatever it may be, there's no voices. Either Genevieve's unconscious or he hasn't got to her yet and she's managed to escape.
Either a car door or the trunk slams shut, and for a little while afterwards, it's complete silence. My nerves are ignited, and I'm frenzied all of a sudden, twitchy and nervous to discover the outcome of this visit. Since I've woken up, Carson's not been in once, and while I'm uncertain of how long my consciousness has been for so far, I know it's been at least an hour or two, surely.
