I had been sitting in a metal chair, alone in this fucking room for at least 45 minutes at this point. I knew those smug bastards were sitting behind the door waiting and waiting, hoping by the time they came back I would be ready to talk. But they were wrong.
I might be in a sticky situation but what they don't know is how truly stubborn I can be.
I heard the doorknob jiggle and when I looked up I saw a short, poorly built, bald man walking in the door. He was wearing a pair of black pants and a wrinkly white shirt, and as he walked closer I noticed a small brown stain by his collar. Disgusting, he can't even feed himself properly.
"Ah, Ms. Gracelyn, how are you this afternoon?" I just sat there, watching him, waiting for him to say more.
"Not talking to me today I see. That's okay, we have time. You see, right now we are in a very secluded location, one not many people know of. Do you know why that is?"
I scoffed, "No, but I am assuming it can't be very legal officer. You know, I think my lawyer will love to hear about how I was taken from my hotel, with no warrant, and brought to an unknown location. Somewhere I was denied any access to a phone, -water, food, or hell, I didn't even get a toilet."
"Well, considering the chances of you getting out here are slim, I'm not too worried. You see, we have been trying for months to get to you, and now that we have you we can't just let you go. It wouldn't make any sense, do you see the dilemma?"
I sat quiet for a few minutes, thinking about how i got into this mess in the first place. How I went from being a girl with a quiet life to sitting in a cold room, waiting to die. How if I could change one small thing I wouldn't be here. But would I want to? Does this outweigh all the good? I finally responded, "He won't let you get away with this. He will come for me."
"Oh doll, I'm counting on it."
† 𝔩𝔦𝔪𝔢𝔯𝔢𝔫𝔠𝔢 /ˈ𝔩ɪ𝔪ə𝔯ə𝔫𝔰/ 𝔞𝔡𝔧𝔢𝔠𝔱𝔦𝔳𝔢: 𝔞 𝔣𝔢𝔳𝔢𝔯𝔢𝔡 𝔰𝔱𝔞𝔱𝔢 𝔬𝔣 𝔪𝔦𝔫𝔡 𝔟𝔬𝔯𝔫 𝔬𝔣 𝔯𝔬𝔪𝔞𝔫𝔱𝔦𝔠 𝔣𝔦𝔵𝔞𝔱𝔦𝔬𝔫; 𝔪𝔞𝔯𝔨𝔢𝔡 𝔟𝔶 𝔬𝔟𝔰𝔢𝔰𝔰𝔦𝔳𝔢 𝔱𝔥𝔬𝔲𝔤𝔥𝔱𝔰, 𝔩𝔬𝔫𝔤𝔦𝔫𝔤 𝔣𝔬𝔯 𝔢𝔪𝔬𝔱𝔦𝔬𝔫𝔞𝔩 𝔯𝔢𝔠𝔦𝔭𝔯𝔬𝔠𝔦𝔱𝔶, 𝔞𝔫𝔡 𝔞𝔫 𝔞𝔠𝔥𝔦𝔫𝔤 𝔡𝔢𝔭𝔢𝔫𝔡𝔢𝔫𝔠𝔶; ∴ 𝔡𝔢𝔳𝔬𝔱𝔦𝔬𝔫 𝔡𝔯𝔢𝔰𝔰𝔢𝔡 𝔦𝔫 𝔡𝔢𝔩𝔲𝔰𝔦𝔬𝔫 †
"Then tell me," I rasp. "Tell me and I'll deal with it. I'll handle it. Just-don't shut me out."
"I can't," she says again, voice breaking. "I can't tell you. I can't be with you. And I can't stand here and watch you break and know that I'm the reason." She swallows hard, her throat moving. "Please don't make me explain it. Please just... stop."
I take a step toward her anyway, rain dripping from my eyelashes, my chest hollow. "I don't care if it kills me," I say, and it's not bravado; it's a man with nothing left to barter. "If that's the price, fine. At least then I get to be with you before it ends."
She makes a small sound, half sob, half laugh, and it's the most human thing I've ever heard from her. "Don't say that," she whispers, almost fierce. "Don't ever say that."
She holds my eyes for one last beat, lips parted like she might say something else - something that could undo all of this, something that could make the rain stop mattering. But she doesn't.
Instead, she exhales, low and unsteady, and shakes her head. "I'm sorry," she says again, softer now, like a confession.
Then she turns.
And that's it.