Dark

Draco

It’s been a week. I have begun to think that no one is coming for me, not even Vlad. I tried to escape two days ago. I was caught and punished. I thought the torture to try to get where The Cup, which I have learned is actually not just a regular cup they had lost, is at from me which I don’t know. Even if I did, I probably wouldn’t tell them on sheer moral. They clearly weren’t good people and whatever The Cup is able to do probably wouldn’t be good in their hands. I guess the one isn’t all that bad, he brings me back after the other man finishes and he gave me this notebook tor write in. He’s also the one who brings me food. Without him, I’d surely be dead by now.

It’s been a week and three days. Last night was rough, the man whose name I have come to learn as Dragomir spent an hour cleaning me up after Diavol had beaten me. I’m sure I would have been killed if Dragomir hadn’t stepped in and reminded him that I was important to Vladimir and if anything were to happen that caused my death Vladimir would have their heads on stakes for the rest of eternity, and that their bodies may still be attached.

I have lost all hope that Vladimir is coming for me or even that I am, or ever was, important to him. I should have known better.

Week two, I tried to escape again last night. This time Dragomir, who I’ve began calling Draco was the one to find me. He didn’t punish me; he just asked that for the sake of my own life I stop trying to escape.

Why should I even try anymore, no one is coming for me so why should I want to leave. At the very least these people want me. Granted they only want me because they think I know something that could help them with whatever it is that they are planning but they want me nonetheless. And it’s beginning to look like no one else cares enough about me to try to find me.

It’s now been four weeks and two days. I have given up all hope. I have been beaten to the point of almost dying, been given just enough time to heal somewhat before being beaten again. Diavol is not keeping me in a continuous state of being only just barely hanging on to life.

Week five. Something is happening. I can hear it.