Total pages in book: 84
Estimated words: 82068 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 410(@200wpm)___ 328(@250wpm)___ 274(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 82068 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 410(@200wpm)___ 328(@250wpm)___ 274(@300wpm)
“Just take me to Megan,” I plead, trying to find a shred of humanity in Caius’s emotionless stare. “I need to see her.”
Maybe if we’re together, we can plan our escape easier.
“I can just deal with her,” Theo offers, resignation in his tone. “I started this. Let me finish.”
I whip my head to look at Theo. For a moment, he looks like an unsure little boy, afraid of his father’s punishment. If I were his dad, I’d take great joy in whipping him.
“What do you mean deal?” I demand, voice turning shrill.
“That’s enough,” Caius rumbles from beside me.
My hair is pulled aside and then the sharp pinch on the side of my neck has me shrieking in surprise. I go to hit at Caius—the deliverer of the surprise attack injection—but he’s already pulling out of my reach.
I rub at my neck, gaping at the empty syringe in his hand. “You…” The world spins around me. “You…”
I feel myself going down, collapsing over the side of my chair, but Gareth catches me before I crash into the floor between us. Their voices are murmured as blackness creeps into my vision.
“I said I’d take care of it,” Caius hisses, his voice reaching me in the encroaching darkness. “Give it time.”
My body feels as though it’s floating. I’m able to grasp the concept that someone is carrying me. Gareth’s voice rumbles through my body. And though I recognize it’s him, I can’t make out the words.
I’m not sure what’s happening anymore. Everything is confusing and feels wrong. My head throbs as I attempt to clutch onto consciousness, but it’s a losing battle.
Just go back to sleep, Romy.
Maybe this will all be a bad dream that you’ll wake up from soon.
Romy
Every day is the same but a little different.
Honestly, I don’t know if these “days” happen multiple times a day or over a span of days or even weeks. All I know is it’s becoming more and more difficult to discern fiction from reality. I’m unable to keep count of how long I’ve been here, which is both maddening and depressing.
Each time I wake up, feeling drugged and hungover, I go through the obsessive rituals of checking for inconsistencies in my room and bathroom, comparing them to the day before, and searching fruitlessly for a way of escape.
And now I have dreams to contend with.
I can’t tell if they’re actual voices I heard while asleep or made up. Either way, it’s making me lose my mind.
I’m desperate to get out of this insane loop.
This morning, instead of rushing to turn on lights and inspect everything in my prison, I keep my eyes closed, hoping to ignore my situation for a little while longer.
I miss Bastian. He’s probably sick with worry since I haven’t called or sent him a text. It gives me comfort that my older brother has most likely attempted to get to the bottom of my sudden disappearance.
But will he ever find me?
I don’t even know where I am.
My chest aches and my bones feel heavy. I’m all cried out. Sometimes I wish I never went on a quest to find Megan.
With a tired sigh, I open my eyes and prepare for another day in hell. I reach for the bedside lamp, but it’s not there. My hand smacks the wall instead. It’s then I realize a familiar smell.
Tide.
It’s the detergent I use.
A tendril of hope wriggles its way into my heart. Maybe I’ve been having a terrible dream and I’m finally waking up from it.
Rolling to the other side, I nearly cry out with happiness when my hand touches the familiar lamp I’d bought after arriving in LA. I flick it on, and the room is bathed in warm yellow light.
I expect the horrible, neutral grays that have been haunting me.
Instead, I see Tara’s messy bed and a pile of shoes next to it. Tears burn my eyes, but I quickly bat them away as I rush to sit up. My fuzzy UGG slippers are in their usual place. Happily, I slide my bare feet into them. I’m no longer wearing the same outfit of jeans, T-shirt, and hoodie. Now I’m wearing my favorite old T-shirt that Bastian gave me plus my pink cotton night shorts.
A sob rattles out of me.
Thank God.
It was all a stupid dream.
I stand and slowly turn in a circle, taking in my shared room. Tara’s Mac Demarco posters are exactly where they should be, the middle one annoyingly crooked. On my side are pictures of me and Bastian, inspirational quotes, and cute pictures of polar bears all taped to the wall.
Wow.
Talk about a messed-up dream.
I’m going to schedule a Zoom with Maura as soon as possible. My meds are apparently not working as they should be. When I see a box of brown sugar Pop-Tarts sitting on my desk, I snatch it up and eagerly tear into one of the packages. The sweet treat makes me groan with pleasure. Dad never let me have Pop-Tarts growing up because they were “poison,” but as soon as I left for college, I stocked up on them and have been practically surviving on them since.