Total pages in book: 66
Estimated words: 64835 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 324(@200wpm)___ 259(@250wpm)___ 216(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 64835 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 324(@200wpm)___ 259(@250wpm)___ 216(@300wpm)
My heaving quickly turns into hyperventilating, and I begin gasping for air. I can’t stay here, I can’t be trapped in this room for months ... or years. I claw at the carpet, my body trembling. No matter what I do, I can’t force myself to calm down. All this over my father? Who is apparently alive? How could he do this to me? How could he lie? I thought he was dead. I suffered, I grieved.
He was everything to me.
If he’s alive ...
No.
This has to be a mistake.
When I finally manage to start breathing properly, I crawl to the window and peer out. Heavy bars cover most of the view, but I can see that we are in the middle of nowhere. All I can see for miles and miles are trees. An endless amount of trees. That doesn’t mean I’m going to give up, though.
No. I will run through those trees if I can, until I curl up and die from dehydration.
I’d rather that than stay here.
I will get out of here.
I will.
They have picked the wrong girl.
2
A long, quiet night passes and nobody comes in. I don’t hear a sound; I don’t hear a damned thing except the whistling of the trees outside. Wherever we are, there are no towns close by. As I stare out of the barred window, I see nothing but pure darkness. I don’t know if he has left or if he’s just avoiding me. I don’t know what he has in store for me, or even if he’s telling the truth. I’ve replayed it over and over in my mind. Is my father truly alive? And if so, what did he do to get himself into protection?
Mostly, why the hell did he leave me with her? My drug addict mother.
That hurts the most.
When the morning light shines through the window, I drag myself out of the bed and push to my feet, standing in the warmth that is trickling through. Last night was long, draining. I read the one small book in the room, twice, and sang to myself during the longest, darkest hours of the evening, when my mind was getting the better of me. I’m not going down the road my mother went. I won’t let myself lose control, not of my mind, not of my body. I’ve been there before, and I didn’t like it. Not a single fucking bit.
“Willow, why do you do this to yourself?” my sister, Jenny, whispers, stroking my hair, her eyes darting around the room, as if the answers lie there.
“She makes me crazy,” I whimper, trying to pull my hands from the restraints holding me to the bed.
Why do they have to tie me? I’m not crazy. I’m not like her.
“She’s sick. She has a disease. It isn’t something you can fix.
“She’s a monster.”
“No, honey, she’s not. Please, don’t do this, don’t crumble. I need you.”
“I can’t,” I whisper.
Neither of us looks down at the damage to my stomach, damage I created myself when my mother made me so crazy I just lost it. I’ve never felt so desperate in my life. I wanted to hurt her, god, I wanted to hurt her so badly that I ended up hurting myself.
The beeping sounds of the keypad has my head snapping up and zoning in on the door. He’s finally coming in, is he? I don’t move from my spot on the floor; instead, I just stand, anxiously waiting. As the door pushes open, I stare at the glorious man who walks through. This would be a whole lot easier on me if he was hideous. His good looks are blinding, and it takes me a moment to remember what a monster he truly is. Even if his faded blue jeans hug his hips in a way that makes my stomach twist, or if his shirt looks like it’s glued to his perfect chest.
Fuck me.
What is wrong with me?
I should be afraid of this man. God knows he has made it clear what he’ll do if I’m not.
He carries a tray in his hands and, without a word, he slams it on a nearby table and turns to leave. Oh, so he’s not going to speak with me? The fucking man dirty danced with me at a club, drugged me, locked me in a room, and now he thinks he can just walk out? I don’t think so.
A thought trickles into my mind as I open my mouth to speak. I read somewhere once that a captor avoids talking to a captive because they’re always weary of creating any sort of bond, or even emotion. If there is even a shot at getting through to this man, I’m going to take it. Maybe it’ll be fruitless, but I’m not about to sit back and do nothing.