Crux Year

Chapter Twenty-One - Royal

The silence is deafening.

I don't know what I expected when those men dragged me down into the bowels of Rock City's hell, but absolute quiet wasn't it.

No hum of the air conditioner.

No echoes from the activities above.

No voices. No squeaks of a mouse. Nothing.

Only the sharp, ragged breaths rasping in and out of me.

"He's not dead," I murmur to myself, just to hear something. "He can't be."

The other terrible thing about being in The Hold is that it's completely absent of light. For that, I'm grateful. Otherwise, I'd be forced to see the way my hands shake and the tears soak through the material of my pants.

A visual reminder of everything that's been taken from me.

If I can't see those reminders, maybe they don't really exist.

But, with darkness comes the intricate and horrible imagery of what happened to my father. Each time my mind goes there, it conjures up something worse than the thought before.

Seconds, minutes, hours pass by in a maddening blur. Maybe even days or months or years. I need to get out of here.

To find Shay and his dads so we can leave this awful place behind. Once out there, beyond the walls, I can seek answers about Dad Morgan and Mr. Preston. Even if what Dad Vince says is true, I'll want to find my father to give him a proper burial and say goodbye.

"He's a liar," I murmur aloud, listening to the way my voice echoes off the cold, rock walls. "He's lied to you about everything your entire life. Why do you believe him now?"

I actually wait for an answer...because I'm losing my damn mind. The loaf of bread and bottle of water I was given who knows how long ago is gone. My stomach is empty and roils endlessly.

Click.

Blinking in the darkness, I strain my ear toward the first sound in what feels like an eternity. Another click.

Thud, thud, thud.

Someone's coming.

Crawling on the stone floor toward where I remember the door to be, I press my ear against the metal. The sounds echo louder. Closer. My heart pounds in tandem with the approaching footsteps, climbing higher and higher in my throat.

"Ever," a gruff voice grunts out. "I'm going to open this door. Don't try any funny shit."

Keys rattle against the lock of the metal door and then a loud bolt snaps. The door creaks open, allowing the light of a flashlight to dance into my dark cell, blinding me. Squinting against the harsh brightness, I try to match a face to the voice, but come up empty.

"Dad?" I croak out.

The man huffs. "It's a blessing it's me and not him, kid. Trust me."

Brady.

I rise to my feet, peering around the open door to find him standing in front of it. Am I getting released? Confusion has my feet rooted to the ground.

"Let's go. Your room is ready."

"What room?" I demand, taking a step backward.

"Don't worry," he grunts, "it has a bed, a toilet, and light. Let's roll."

Considering I've had to piss on the floor in the corner of the cell I'm currently being held in, I'm eager to be placed in more civil accommodations.