Ghosts

7) Illusion

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The morning came slowly. I watched the sun begin to creep through the window as it rose, shivering even under the blanket. As the room got brighter, the aches in my joints and the pain radiating out from where he had hit me became more pronounced. I shifted uncomfortably, hissing air out between my teeth when a rouge spring in the mattress prodded at a bruise on my thigh. Even lying down my head spun. I squeezed my eyes shut and sighed, listening longingly at the birds calling outside the window.

They were free.

The longing quickly morphed to anger. Frustration.

How the fuck did I get in this situation?

The sounds of the birds was interrupted by the faint echo of footprints on concrete, slowly coming closer. My heart thudded in my ears with each step as I bolted upright and scooted backwards on the mattress and lent against the wall, my mind trying to anticipate who would walk through the door. The sound of metal against metal scratched at my ears, before the door flew open and reverberated against the wall.

Booth stood in the doorway, his face frustratingly revealing nothing. He held a paper bag in one hand and a heavy, industrial chain was draped over his opposite shoulder. He smirked at my apprehension, somehow picking up the subtle glimmer of unease in my eye.

"Didn't think I'd leave you, huh?

His tone was uncharacteristically calm with only a hint of hostility, though his feet were heavy against the floor as he entered. He dumped the chain next to the pole in the middle of the room, not even flinching when it clattered onto the concrete, before carelessly throwing the paper bag in my direction. I eyed it warily, unsure of his intentions.

"Pick. It. Up", he snarled.

I gingerly reached forward, grimacing as I shifted weight over a bruise, and reluctantly grasped the smooth paper. Booth stood in the centre and stared, not saying a thing. His face darkened when I made no further movements and his eyes narrowed, making pointed looks at the bag in my hand. I sighed, and slowly unrolled the top of the paper, warily eyeing the man in room.

It was food. The smell of stale bread and cheap ham wafts from the bag, my stomach resonating a rumble in response. I hadn't noticed how hungry I was. My eyes wandered back upwards and eyed Booth. I don't trust him.

He smirked.

"Eat. If I wanted you dead, you would be".

My eyes narrow but flick back down to the contents in the bag, my stomach growling longingly. A sigh escapes my lips as I reluctantly bring out one half of the ham sandwich, giving it a sniff before taking a bite. Despite the taste of the stale bread, the saltiness of the ham melts into my tastebuds and satisfies the hunger I hadn't realised I had until a few minutes ago. Too hungry to care about the man in the room, my hesitation flies out the window and I scarf down the entire contents, even taking out the small bottle of water and taking a large gulp. Only after I set the bottle down beside me do I realise that Booth was stood in the center of the room the whole time.

"All done?", He smirks once again, and straightens up against the pole he was leaning on. I fail to suppress the glare whilst I give a terse nod.

Whether he means to show it or not, the flash of hatred in his eyes is hard to miss. He's over in a stride, yanking my body upwards by my arms and seemingly tightening his hold at the grunt of pain that escapes my lips.

"Don't you dare be disrespectful", he growls, yanking me away from the wall and pushing me through the only other doorway off the cramped room. He flicks the light switch, illuminating the darkness of the small bathroom, before he brings out a pocketknife from his pocket and roughly breaks the bonds on my hands and feet. He then shoves a ragged cloth into my hands and turns to leave,