Chapter 16

Noah

The large hand covering my face, blocking my mouth and nose, prevents me from vomiting yet again. My lungs flutter, fighting for oxygen while simultaneously preventing the taste of bile from flooding my throat. When the man finally lets go of me, my muscles slacken and my body collapses forward against the restraints, my mouth wide open as my shoulders heave and I throw up on the floor at my feet. They've been doing this for hours, forcing me to eat and drink, only to make me throw it all up again. Since they caught me trying to escape and killed three of them, their torture has become more cruel. However, they do not seem to have permission to kill me. Otherwise, they would have done it by now, that is for sure.

"You're surprisingly resilient," one of the men in front of me says before grabbing my chin and forcing me to look up at him. My vision is blurry, the men and the room around me nothing but a mass of fuzzy colors. I haven't recognized a single face since... I don't know how long it's been.

With a loud slap, a hand connects with my head, landing against the open injury on the side of my head where my ear used to be. With a groan, the air pushes out of my lungs and my body pulls on the restraints.

"You're supposed to answer when we talk to you," the man says, followed by the slurping sound of saliva collecting in his mouth and seconds later a wet sensation slaps my face.

My lips curl into a grin. Every fiber of my body is on fire and I'm sure I have a fever. My time awake is getting shorter and shorter; my body and brain are fighting to stay alive, but it's only a matter of time before they finally give up. One thing I'm sure of, though, is that I'm not going to give up just yet.

With what little strength I have left, I collect a good amount of sour saliva on my tongue, tilt my head back, and spit at him just like the man did to me. "I'm far from dying, you idiot," I say with a grin, my voice hoarse from my damaged vocal cords.

I groan as a foot connects with my chest, sending the chair I'm tied to flying backwards and collapsing to the floor. "You son of a bitch," the man hisses, his footsteps echoing through the cold concrete room as he stalks toward me.

"Maybe we should go a step further," another man across the room says, and my head snaps in the direction of the blurry figure. As he approaches, I notice a shiny object in his hands, reflecting the soft shimmer of the light bulb hanging from the ceiling. Will they finally put me out of my misery? Are they done with me? They must be getting tired just like me.

But instead, the group bursts into laughter and my stomach drops. Why are they laughing? They wouldn't be laughing if they were finally putting an end to all of this. My eyes widen as one of the men steps over me and crouches down, resting his weight on my chest. Up close, with the light reflecting off the object, I finally see what he is holding. A knife. I have a pretty good idea what he is going to do. I've done this a dozen times before. The grin on my face grows even wider. What a day to experience it firsthand.

"You won't be grinning much longer, you sick fucker," the man says.

"We'll see about that, show me what you got," I challenge him.

The moment the sharp tip of the knife sinks into my eye, piercing my eyeball and darkening my vision, I burst out in a fit of hysterical laughter, masking the painful screams that follow each twist of the blade. My heart pounds against my chest in an erratic rhythm, fueled by the adrenaline that mutes the pain.

When all of a sudden, a series of gunshots from outside the room draws everyone's attention. The blade slips from my eye socket and the weight of the man sitting on my chest disappears as he rises and drops the knife beside me.

"What was that?" one of them asks.

Screams follow the gunfire and the men around me begin to move frantically around the room.

"What do we do with him?"

"Sit him up, I don't want him to die. We will kill him later," the voice of the man who tortured me says, and within a second of his answer, a pair of large hands land on my shoulder and pull my chair back up. Hurried footsteps echo through the room, followed by the metal door slamming shut with a loud crash, leaving me alone in the gloomy room.

The repeated gunshots and screams from outside fade into a buzzing hum until a dangerous silence falls over me. With no strength left in my limbs, my head lolls forward and out of the corner of my eye, I spot the shiny drop of blood pooling at the tip of my nose.

My thoughts slip, memories blur, my mind struggles to hold onto anything familiar. But I see her, my sweet Dove. Images of her flicker before my eyes—her bright smile, her laughter—jittery and unstable, interrupted by the nightmarish scenes of my childhood, slowly but surely merging into a black mess .

The searing pain coursing through my body morphs from steady waves of misery to a constant dull, pulling me deeper. In the darkness, I hold on to the small fragment of her image, like a flicker of light at the end of the tunnel.

"Dove," I whisper to myself, allowing my eyes to fall shut.