Fear

19

The silence after Tyler left felt heavy.

The door shut behind him with a resounding thud, and then... nothing. Just my own deep breaths. The straps on my limbs ached where they dug into my skin, but I barely noticed.

Not after that. Not after him.

My mind was still spinning. Skin still burning after his touch. Neck still tingling where his thumb had brushed. His onyx eyes were burned into my memory, so badly I could almost still see him in front of me.

I didn't know how long I sat there before the shift of boots on concrete knocked me out of my thoughts.

Jack. Still lurking in the corner like some quiet, obedient shadow. His footsteps were deliberate as he approached me.

I didn't speak. Neither did he.

Then came the sounds of the buckles being loosened, straps unlatched, tension releasing, and leather creaking as it gave way. One by one, my wrists and ankles were freed. Pins and needles rushed through my legs, blood finally moving again. I flexed my fingers and blinked to refocus my eyes. I'd been staring into the distance.

But I didn't have time to savour the freedom.

The cold snap of metal around my wrists made me flinch. Click. Click. Handcuffs. Not tight, but not gentle either.

"Come on," Jack said.

My body was sore and uncooperative, joints stiff, muscles grumbling. Still, I stood when he guided me to the door.

He led me out of the Act room without another word. Barefoot and cold, I followed. My mind wasn't right, still fogged, still spinning, still... weird.

The heavy clunking of Jack's boots and the slaps of my feet on the concrete floor became quieter as other noises joined us in the hallway. A woman crying from behind a locked door. The incessant, familiar buzzing of overhead lights. The groaning of iron doors. The sound of someone laughing — jarring in a place like this.

The sounds freaked me out. I glanced up at Jack, hoping for even a glimpse of humanity, of empathy, of any fucking emotion. Nothing. His eyes were empty, just that blank mask of quiet detachment. I might as well have been an object, a piece of luggage.

He led me down the corridor with a steady hand on my arm. The hallway stretched on longer than it should have.

We walked. And walked. And walked.

I kept count of every step. Eight. Nine. Ten. Eleven. I didn't know why. Felt like I needed something to anchor me.

Finally, he stopped outside a pale green door with a rusting sign above it, 'Women.'

"You've got five minutes," Jack said, before nudging me inside.

'Okay...'

Five stalls. A row of sinks. No windows. Stale air. Cracked tiles. One flickering light above the mirrors.

The cubicles were empty, except for one with a rusted door that didn't close properly. I stepped inside, sat, relieved myself, and then... paused.

My gaze drifted up.

In the corner, above the last stall, was an air vent. Square, dusty, maybe a foot wide.

I didn't hesitate. I rushed to the last cubicle and stood up slowly, precariously, on the toilet lid. It creaked under my weight, but held. I lifted my arms to reach the vent, rose to my tippy toes, and...

Useless.

"Fuck!" I hissed under my breath.

I stood there for a long moment, glaring at the ceiling like it had betrayed me. Then I dropped back down, sat, and sulked.