Alpha's Captive (Now censored)

1-Captive

A/N: Just to correct some misconceptions; I never took down this book. I woke up one day on November of 2020 and it was gone. My heart broke. It had over 4 million reads and  I had put so much careful work into it.

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Rats are smart.

That's what I gathered from sharing a basement with one for two days.

Making friends with a loathed animal wasn't in my plans this summer, but it was either this rodent or plain solitude. I would rather take a rat's companionship over being alone with my thoughts.

I've given it a name: Jupiter, and my food, if leftover spaghetti with mysterious chunks of grease and a piece of wet bread could be called that.

I talk to it.

No i'm not insane, it's comforting and it breaks the eerie silence of the basement, so I chat with the animal, extremely quietly though. Not to be heard by anyone. My words were for the inattentive ears of the rat only.

As I glanced down to it, crawling near my legs in the dim light, I realized there was nothing remotely cute about it. It was one musty, crusty rat if you ask me.
What on earth pushed me to try to pet it earlier?

You really can find worth in the most hideous things around you as long as there is nothing else to look at. Safe to say my standards had been lowered, as a matter of fact, I wanted to pet it again right now, but I was chained.

...And it already bit me once. 

I laid back on the dirty old torn up mattress. Loose fabric strings caught onto my chipped nail. It should be night by now. Jupiter crawled away somewhere I couldn't see, alarmed at my sudden movement. It will come back. That's the thing about rats, and some people, feed them once and they'll always find their way back to you.

The smell of moldy mattress sponge hit my nose as soon as my head touched the pillow. The basement floor was all dusty grey cement. Not even tiles. The walls were a terrible peeling green paint job which with the endless flickering of the neon lights above the door, gave me one headache after another. An old run down boiler sat by the door, it shook and screeched every time someone used the hot water upstairs.

That thing could explode any minute.

Death by murder or death by explosion. Do I want my throat slit or do I want to be blown to bits? They both beat dying of old age which makes them equally great to me.

No.

No, I take it back. I would rather die of old age. In the safety of my bed, with white hair, saggy, deflated skin and a trillion grandkids. If there was such a thing as "Dying on your own terms" that was the closest I could wish for.

I don't want to die yet. Not now, and ew, not in here.
Please help.
Someone, anyone. If I have to stay down here for one more day I was going to chew my own tongue. The chains rattled as I yanked my hands away to try, for the hundredth time, to break free. I was tied up like a dog to the radiator behind me. It frustrated me. I had skinned my own wrists trying to slide the cuffs down my hands and I never would've thought i'd complain about having chubby thumbs, but I hated them right then.

My back was sore from sitting all day. That was all I did. Sit there. Waiting. The gash on my elbow sometimes stinging, reminding me that I wasn't made of stone. The way I sat, immobile, for hours, you'd never tell I was human. The needle bruise across my forearm getting bluer. My cheek was already flushed red.