Fallen Angel (A Call of Duty: Black Ops 2 Fanfiction)

Chapter 9- Doomed

The pain that welled inside me wasn't pleasant. It burned and stung worse than alcohol to a cut or a paper cut between the fingers. I almost couldn't stand it; I honestly don't know how I did. What kept me going?

Mason.

His height, his hair, hands, nose, mouth, muscles. Everything. I mostly thought about his eyes and how much they sparkled when I was in them. His words were a close second. Mason always had something to keep me going and I often thought about his words for support.

I wished to be able to wrap my arms around him and have him cradle my light weight with ease. His whispers would bring me back to life, in which I was barely living. It wouldn't go further than cuddling, but currently I wished for it to be anything with Mason rather than here.

Those thoughts were all until the last two weeks.

Now I shivered in my cell, biting at my chipped and filthy nails. I felt as if the dirt underneath them was the only thing to keep my growling stomach at ease. My clothes consisted of underwear and a short, t-shirt-like dress. My hair was tangled and sticking up in certain places it hadn't used to. My body was scratched up, yet those were minor.

Underneath my clothes were light whip marks, bruises, cuts deep enough for stitches, and over-groped breasts. None of the men torturing me had touched me lower than the waist, except to chain my ankles, and I was relieved. The men were dirty and acted like fighters for a rebel leader. They were also strong, making it clear that if I was raped, then I wouldn't have a chance to escape.

The other prisoners were another story. All men, they were brutal and eyed me as if I was something to eat. Probably because I was of more value, I had a guard next to me at all times, even when I was rarely allowed to shower or eat. Usually the guard was harsh and timed me for everything.

What I really wanted to do was meet Menendez again. He had put me in the hellhole. I wanted him dead and not quickly. I wanted him to suffer just as much as I had, if not more.

"Get up," a guard broke me from my thoughts and I sat up in my creaky prison bed.

It had to be midnight at least and I stifled a yawn as I stretched. The guard finished opening the cell door, waiting for me to limp out of it. I stopped as he slid the door shut, creating a loud clanking sound.

"You're wanted in the Hole," the guard growled, walking next to me.

I had to admit this guard was rather handsome. He'd been with me for the past few days, gentler than the rest, but still completely harsh. The guard, whose name was Paul, was American and Mexican. His skin tone was lighter than most soldiers at the prison, yet not white enough to be completely American. I admired his muscles and strong skill in getting me out of trouble.

"Of course," I pulled one shoulder of the dress down to reveal bruises. "I need to be in there."

Paul seemed to cringe and look away from my shoulder. I stopped and Paul did too, eyeing me challengingly. His eyes were a dark blue mixed with gray. Around his pupil, though was a small ring of brown-gold. They were rare and extraordinary eyes that made me smile and shiver every time I gazed at them.

"What?" I tilted my head.

"It's just hard," Paul ran a hand through his thick blonde hair, "to see a girl like you in here, like this."