Madam President ✓

77. Literal Fucking Torture

Walter

The metal tipped boots stop. Water drips from the ceiling somewhere- and my hyperventilation must be amusing to them, because they laugh as they unlock the door. A million things run through my head.

First- images from what were, so far- the worst moments of my life. Second- an escape plan. I've watched way too many survivalist shows and been to almost as many self defense classes, so I know my prospects are slim. I have no idea where specifically I am- nor the layout of the basement, what security measures they use, or how many cameras there are.

There could be none- but I find that possibility unlikely. They managed to kidnap me- would they really be that stupid?

I test my restraints- some sort of para-cord. All I manage to do is tighten them even more. The man steps in front of me, and I stare at the floor. I'll take note of his face later. Right now I'm trying to think.

The water's still dripping- which means there are pipes or, depending on how low the basement is, sewers nearby. Shit- that must be where the smell's coming from.

I try not to picture how many dead things float in the human waste that's likely just a few yards away, behind the brick walls.

"It gets overwhelming, doesn't it?" The man says. "Try working here for twenty years."

Mistake. He made a big mistake telling me that.

"Yeah. Are you a housekeeper or do you torture people for a living?" I stare him down now. Blue eyes. Light brown hair. Christ- he's half of the men in Russia. I'd only be able to pick him out if they showed me his picture, especially in such a poorly lit space.

He smirks. "Really depends on how I'm feeling. The president gives me quite a bit of freedom when it comes to my.... Jobs. Eat."

"And how do you suggest I do that?" I say, gesturing behind my back.

"I suggest that you do nothing stupid, but it is always your choice." He walks around, his boots squishing against the wet, dark brown rug I hadn't noticed before. When he touches my wrists to cut through the cord without cutting me, flashbacks hit again. No, not here- I tell myself. You can do this later, once you've gotten out.

"Come.....on...just.....be.....still." He grunted as I cried. Later that night, I buried myself in my comforter and didn't move for over ten hours. Everything hurt too much- mentally and physically.

"Well? Are you determined to starve to death?" The man says, apparently having pulled the para-cord away. Slowly, waiting on him to hit me- I stand up.

He reaches just outside the door, where there's apparently a waist level table- and hands me a paper plate of plain Blini. I try to picture a scenario where I catch him off guard for a fraction of a second by throwing it at his face, kicking him in the balls, and shooting him with the gun he holds like an accessory- but decide against it. I slowly sit back down, eyeing the open doorway.

"Don't bother."

"Wasn't going to." I lie.

Blini, layered with sweet cream and raspberries, is one of my favorite breakfast foods. I order it from a small bakery a mile from the White House- owned by a lovely old Russian couple, a few times a week. I doubt I'll ever be able to look at it the same way again.

It feels dry in my mouth, but I don't give him the satisfaction of asking for water. I'll give in when I'm on the edge of dehydration, I decide.

They've truly given me just enough so I don't starve. I choke the last bite down just two minutes later and set my plate on the floor.

"Bathroom?"