The Golden Wolf

Hummingbirds

Heyyyyyyyyyy. Look who's back with another chapter for y'all. This one is super long because I couldn't figure out a good place to end it, so I just kept writing. 

Picture at the top is Petra

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The truth is,

 every monster you have ever met 

or will ever meet

 was once a human being 

with a soul that was as soft and light as 

silk

I'm dressed in leather skin tight pants and a dark blood red sweater. The pants were comfortable. I hadn't worn anything like this in years, and I felt at home in them. Maybe back then wasn't so bad after all.

I can feel the hours going by as I rummage through the freezer, searching for more food. I grew tired of vegetables, but there wasn't much else. I wolf down a few of the now thawed hotdogs, gagging a bit. I'd never been a fan of hotdogs. Being locked in a dungeon only helps a little.

Something is off about this situation, besides the whole cultist thing. Something just doesn't add up. Last I checked most cultists were just young adults living in their parents' basement, pretending to be evil. This is different. These people are powerful. Something much more than the normal 'cult' thing is happening, and it's frightening.

One thing is for sure: I need to be strong again. I know I can still fight like I used to, but I'm weaker. I'm rusty and out of practice. If anyone from my past saw me now... But that's impossible, isn't it? That past is gone, and I'm all that's left.

Push ups, sit up, pull ups. Standing jumps up onto the table. I can still do it all. Not as well as before, but well enough. Not knowing how long I'd be down here, I think it is best I try to get back to where I was back then. Exercising was still important when I was in high school and college, but I didn't keep up the routine I'd had before. Now I'm thinking that I should have.

I know I'm going to have to think myself out of this situation, something I was never good at. I was the one they used as feminine bait, but I was also the best of the best in the business. I didn't do the thinking. I did the job. I use the razor that they stupidly left down here to cut a small slit in the double waist of the pants, and fold the suicide note around the razor, tucking it into the pocket I made. It's not much of a weapon, but it's something.

Between exercising and eating nearly all of their frozen vegetables, I've managed to waste about half a day since I last saw anyone. I don't feel tired, but I know I should sleep. The lights in the house are off, so I assume they are all asleep. I have no idea what the next day might hold for me, and I'd prefer not to stay and find out.

There are fourteen stairs to reach the door that would lead to the rest of the house. I placed weight on each one carefully, remembering how some of them squeaked when the others walked on them earlier in the day. Each squeak, I freeze, my ears listening intently to the silence of the house, carefully trying to sense any presence. If they caught me, I was sure to be a goner. Cultists aren't known for their everlasting patience. I keep my back to the stone wall, hoping that the stairs here would be more reliant on the wall, and therefore less likely to squeak. Minutes pass by every time a stair squeaks, as I listen to see if I've been noticed. I can feel my heart pounding throughout my entire body, and I wouldn't be surprised if it is audible outside my body. I'm like a bad rewritten version of the telltale heart. Except it's my heart this time. I am damn guilty.