It's That 'I Hate You' Kind of Love

Chapter Fourteen

**When you see ITIHYKOL that stand for It's That I Hate You Kind of Love**

Seven days.

I've been locked in this room for seven days.

An entire week of my life spent in this room.

I am never going to get that time back.

My jaw was sore.

I knew he hadn't wanted to hurt me, but he had. Being desperate will do that to you. The look he had had was completely and utterly frightening. It was hard to believe that this werewolf somehow cared about me that much. I wanted to punch him in the face for that, but I could barely lift my arm.

My strength was back, but I remained frozen, staring up at one of my new best friends; the ceiling. I had become well-acquainted with everything in this room in the past week. With boredom I had almost named the objects (Carl the Lamp), but after deeming the lighting fixture by my Uncle's name, I realized that I was crazy and stopped.

However, I still referred to the lamp as my best buddy Carl. Ah Carl, if I was Tom Hanks then you would be my Spaulding. We were that close.

Okay, sorry, I'll stop. Care for me to explain my unnatural weirdness? To do that I'm afraid we're going to have to go back six days ago, the morning after the intimidating dinner with the werewolves.

Ready?

Here we go kids.

Welcome to my hellish life.

DAY 1

"Who are you?" I demanded, standing with my hands on my hips like some sassy teenager. She had woken me up and scared the heck out me, no need for immediate kindness.

The old woman set her dirty gray box of tools on the floor and wordlessly pointed to her attached name tag on her navy blue jumpsuit. I read in cursive blue lettering: SPARKY.

Sparky huh? The name seemed oddly fitting for the scrawny old woman. My eyes drifted up to her wrinkled face, blank and slightly clouded grey eyes, to her wild, tangled silvery white hair peeking out from under her navy blue cap. Her skin was paper white and hung loosely on her body from age. She was so thin that if I poked her, she would probably fall over and get picked up in the wind. When I stared at her the word "wispy" immediately came to mind.

What this strange woman with a pet's name was doing in this room I have no idea.

"Um, nice to meet you Sparky." I said. "My name's Charlotte."

She studied me wordlessly with those misty gray eyes and I shifted a little. Finally she moved, pursing her thin, incredibly chapped lips and kneeled down on the rug with her back to me. Even through her jumpsuit I could see the ridge of her spine. That couldn't be good.

I watched her for a moment shuffle through what looked like a small booklet with tiny words and then made my way to the bathroom with fresh clothing. As I showered I couldn't shake the feeling that today was definitely a weird day. It was ten thirty this morning and still no one had brought me breakfast. Usually Emily would visit me around nine thirty, but maybe she let me sleep in. And then there was the presence of Sparky. The elderly woman with her hawk like facial features was slightly unsettling.

When I exited the bathroom, clothed in shorts and a t-shirt, I was surprised to find a giant flat screen tv and two burly pack members leaving the room. Sparky remained on the floor surrounded by planks of wood, the (now torn) instruction manual, and her open tool box. She didn't look up when I arrived, deciding to focus on assembling the parts.