19. Hope

Nineteen

Hope

I wake up from my sleep, my body aching with every movement. How long have I been out? Each cut that Marklov inflicted on my skin throbs painfully, the sharp stings constantly bringing back his wrath. Every breath I take seems to amplify the pain, making it almost intolerable.

I must have blacked out after… I look over at my finger and see the bandage wrapped around it. The sight churns my stomach, a sickening reminder of what he put me through last night. The unshed tears I have been desperately holding in start to rise to the surface. I roll my eyes back and blink fast, trying to conceal them as much as possible.

My eyes widen. "My finger, my fuckin' finger is gone! You bastard!" I scream out, causing my voice to crack. I could hear the echo of my scream linger in the hallway.

Anger surges through me, mingling with the adrenaline as the realization of my missing finger sets in. My breathing becomes heavy and uneven. Darkness threatens to overwhelm me, but I refuse to give in. When I get pissed off, I usually get to thrash out, but here I can't. Here, I just have to accept it and let some tears free, determined to find a way out no matter what it takes.

It is too quiet down here; my tinnitus is screaming at me, and my heartbeat makes a sick thumping noise.

I am alone. I am in pain. I am afraid.

Being alone and in pain is something I'm used to, but fear is a whole new beast. The darkness feels heavier more suffocating, and every second drags on, making me wonder if I'll ever find a way out. Once somewhat comforting, this room is now just as dark as the previous one. It is cold here. My body is shivering uncontrollably, breaking out with goosebumps. I can feel myself getting weaker with every passing moment—each breath I take drives a spike of pain through my rib cage, the dried blood on my skin is itchy, and my finger is throbbing painfully. My mouth is dry again, making my lips crack, and my stomach aches so badly that even thinking about food makes me want to throw up. I am caught between a rock and a hard place with no way out.

I can see a shadowy figure under the door; the guard must be outside. Of course he is. Why wouldn't he be?

As I lay here curled up, staring at the wall, I can't help but think that if I had just killed him that night instead of running, my mom would still be here, and I wouldn't be in this mess. The regret gnaws at me, each thought a painful reminder of what could have been. If I had been strong enough to face him then and not a pussy, maybe everything would be different now.

I have just one thing to fuckin' say about this whole twisted ordeal.

"Let. Me. Go. Or. Let. Me. Die."

* * *

My mind keeps calling out to Ghost, desperately hoping he can hear me through the suffocating silence. Each plea feels like a lifeline thrown into the abyss, making me question my sanity. I wonder if I'm losing my grip on reality, clinging to the hope that he might somehow sense my distress and rescue me.

A part of me can feel him. I can feel the rise and fall of his chest when he was fighting to stay awake. I can hear his heartbeat loud and clear when I close my eyes and focus hard enough. It feels almost like he is sending signals to me.

He must be out there somewhere, and better yet, alive.

This connection I keep feeling will drive me fuckin' crazier than I already am. I know it sounds insane, but fuck man, trust me when I say that I have a weird sense for this shit. I cannot help but think that man, that stranger is my only hope and refuge. That connection to him pulls me back whenever I feel like giving up. It's like a lifeline tethering me to a reality where he's still out there, where our paths will cross again.

Sometimes, in the quiet moments, I hear his voice, a whisper in the wind, urging me to hold on just a little longer, warning me that he is coming.

"I am coming for you, Little Killer."

This profound connection, this unbreakable invisible thread between us, keeps me going. Ghost is the shadow I want with me in my darkest nights, the hint of something tangible that will defy all odds. Whenever I feel lost in Marklovs grasp, I can almost sense him reaching out, even if it's just in my mind. A part of me clings to the idea that he can feel this connection too, that somehow, across the distance and the silence, he knows. I just hope I'm right and that he feels it even a bit.

* * *

I must have passed out while in deep thought; those thoughts alone brought me a different type of peace and comfort. They made me forget what my life and world currently consisted of.

All I ever wanted in life was to feel a sense of safety and security, and it took me one night, one text, and one man in a mask who showed me a piece of his own darkness to even come close to that.

At twenty-five years old, I finally felt it. I've been alone all my fuckin' life. Yet, I would change it all for this man alone. His presence, even in his darkness, brought me a glimpse of what I'd been yearning for—a sense of belonging, a feeling that I was no longer adrift in this vast, unfeeling world. He showed me that I was not any different than him. I belong somewhere, and that is with him.

Would he even want me anymore? I'm broken, bruised, and damaged. A monster has marked me and now claims me as his own.

I cringe at everything: the littlest sounds and the slightest movements. Marklov left marks on me, and in me, that would ride out the rest of my life with me if I ever did escape this place. Marks that any sane person would turn their heads in disgust at the sight of them.

Every time I catch a glimpse of myself, I am overwhelmed by a wave of deep, unrelenting disgust. It is as if every flaw, mistake, and regret is etched into my skin, staring back at me with a cruel clarity that I can't seem to escape.

I feel trapped in this relentless cycle of self-loathing, where every look at myself reminds me of the person I now am. The pain of facing myself is almost unbearable, and it feels like I'm drowning in my sorrows.

No man would want to touch me after seeing what surfaced my once smooth skin. Granted the scars I already have on my body, I came to accept them as a part of me and who I have become.

Marklov carved an "M" on my upper inner thigh, claiming me as his. He slid a blade across my skin, leaving cuts that bled just enough to dry up. He knew they weren't deep enough to become infected, so he played it safe and smart. The pain was real, but the emotional scars ran even more profound, a constant reminder of the control he has over me.

I try to reposition myself, and the pain is fuckin' unbearable. I have cold sweats, my body is trembling, my head hurts, and I am completely back in a position that is not to my advantage.

The chain connected to my ankle made a scrapping noise on the flooring, alerting anyone listening that I am awake.

The shadow lingering just outside my room door moved, and I heard a man's voice make a call. "She is awake, Boss," he said in a deep voice. I could see his shadow position right back to where it was before the call.

A part of me wants to call out, but it would be useless. I don't write this man's paychecks, and besides, that man owes me not one fuckin' thing. He wouldn't care if I screamed until my voice gave out. He's got his own agenda, and I'm just an inconvenient obstacle in his way.

The minutes drag on, stretching into what feels like an eternity. My focus narrows to the sound of my raspy breathing and the relentless grumbling of my stomach. Every second is a reminder of my discomfort and isolation. The only position that brings even a semblance of comfort is curling up in the fetal position, where I can try to shield myself from the oppressive weight of time and my gnawing hunger. It's as if the world outside has ceased to exist, leaving me trapped in this everlasting moment of agony and despair.

I closed my eyes and try to think of anything to distract my mind. I am a prisoner, the worst kind of prisoner, Marklovs prisoner.

I can hear faint footsteps approaching, getting closer and closer. I don't dare to move; maybe if Marklov thinks I'm asleep, he'll leave me alone. Yeah, right. Like he gives a damn about my privacy, as if pretending to be asleep would make any difference to that bastard.

The footsteps come to a halt. I can hear whispering, but I can't make out a damn word they're saying. I know that anything coming out of Marklov's mouth is no bueno. No good. I have to face it as it comes to me; what else can I do? I'm just a cog in his malevolent machine.

The door swings open, making me flinch a little. "Oh, Little Sinister, I hope I'm not interrupting your peaceful sleep," he says in a dark tone and then slaps my ass. The touch of his flesh against mine brings back vivid memories of the night before. I squeeze my eyes shut, trying to push them away as far as I can. I let out a low groan.

"Your friend is quite the little messmaker, Little Sinister," he said annoyedly. I have no fuckin' idea who he could be talking about. Wait. Ghost. He is the only one who I could deem a messmaker. Hell, he is the only one I am associated with now. What exactly does he mean, though?

I lie still, confusion written all over my face. I don't want to move from my spot, but I have questions. Questions that need answers.

Is Ghost searching for me? If that's the case, why and how does Marklov know? Is he just trying to mess with my head? Is this some kind of twisted test? I'm confused and flustered, but I'm not falling for his shit or his sick mind games.

I want to sit up, but the pain in my body would intensify, and Marklov would probably not like the sight of me looking the slightest bit happy or hopeful, not one damn bit.

"I know you're awake and listening. I just wanted to warn you before matters get worse for you." What does that even mean? My breathing begins to quicken, my heart pounding in my chest. The room feels colder, and a sense of dread washes over me. Suddenly, the door creaks open, and a group of men enters the room, their expressions stern and unyielding.

"This will break you. I will fucking break you, Little Sinister." Marklovs voice taunts me.

His hand starts tracing my prickly skin, sending shivers down my spine. I jerk away from his touch, jumping up in alarm. My eyes dart around the room, wide with fear and confusion. He chuckles at the sight, clearly amused by my reaction. The sound of his laughter only heightens my anxiety, making me feel even more trapped and vulnerable.

The men approach me, each of them grabbing me by a limb, forcing me into the star position. I try to fight them off of me. I start kicking, scratching, and biting at them. It was a weak attempt for someone in my position. My eyes dart to each and every one of their faces.

My brain taking in every little detail of who is touching me, imprinting their faces into my memory. Marklov stands at the side of the bed, a look of disappointment spreading across his face. Does he just want me to sit here like a fuckin paraplegic? Yeah, over my dead fuckin' body.

Marklov reaches into his pocket, and a sudden glint catches my eye, sending a jolt of dread through me. My heart races as I try to scream, but before I can make a sound, a guard shoves a cloth into my mouth, silencing me. The room closes in, and my muffled cries echo in my ears.

Tears stream down my face uncontrollably, each one a testament to my growing despair. I watch in horror as he removes his rings, replacing them with brass knuckles, the metallic clinks echoing ominously in the room. My heart pounds in my chest, and all I can think is, fuck me, this can't be happening.

Marklov approaches me slowly, the brass knuckles glinting ominously in the dimmed room. My heart pounds in my chest, each beat echoing in my ears like a drum. He kneels beside me, his face inches from mine, and I can feel the cold metal of the brass knuckles brushing against my cheek.

He leans into my ear, his lips grazing my skin. "You should have known better," he whispers, his voice dripping with malice. "You brought this upon your-fucking-self. Little Sinister. I warned you, God damn it!" he shouts, his words laced with pure hatred.

With a swift motion, he strikes me across the face, the pain exploding in my skull. My vision blurs and the taste of blood fills my mouth as I struggle against the restraints. The guards hold me tighter, their grip like iron, and I can do nothing but endure the onslaught.

I force myself to instill the strength honed within me to look up. Marklov's expression never changes. The disappointment is still etched into his features. He stands up, looking down at me with a mixture of pity and disdain.

"Remember this moment," he says coldly. "It's the price of defiance, Little Sinister."

I try to say anything to him and speak out the words, "I didn't even do anything!" But it just comes out as a bag full of mumbled cries.

The pain radiating in my face takes away all of the things I feel in my body and pins it to one place.

I can't save myself this time. I am tired of fighting.

Marklov bends down, placing his tongue on my busted face, and licks a stream of blood that is now oozing out and running down the side of my head.

"You taste like death, Little Sinister." He moaned out with a growl. "It would be much better to end your miserable life right here, right now." He says with a wicked smile. "However, I want to keep you here and make you wish death upon yourself. Do you think that I am the devil? The devil himself would not dare to fucking cross me." He spoke out in a voice filled with hatred.

Marklov's body shifts at an angle as he draws his arm back. With all his force, he slams into my face again with his brass knuckles. The impact sends shockwaves through my skull, and I can feel the warm trickle of blood running down in a steady flow.

"Get her on her feet," he commands his men with a voice as cold as steel. He begins to pace in front of me. "Beauty is key in today's world. No one will love you if you aren't up to those standards." The pain stings sharply, radiating through my entire face.

I know I have a concussion; the world around me spins, and my vision is blurry. I just need to fight it a bit longer. "Don't give up…" I repeat to myself over and over again. Every muscle in my body screams in protest as I struggle to stand, the taste of blood in my mouth mingling with the bitter taste of defiance.

He looks up at his men and gives them a slight head nod. Each guard pulls the ropes off my weakened limbs almost simultaneously. Although it feels like a weight has been lifted, I know whatever he has in store next will surely make me wish the restraints were still holding me down.

"Do you have any fucking idea what you have done, Little Sinister?" He barks out, licking the corner of his mouth. His mood clearly says he's beyond pissed off at me for whatever I did.

Marklov begins pacing back and forth in front of me as the huge ass guards hold me in place. My head drops down. The blood is trickling down my face, making a puddle of crimson right below me.

The metallic scent fills the air, and I can't help but admit that it drives me insane.

I gain the courage and the strength to pull my head up to make eye contact with Marklov. He stops mid-step with anger-filled eyes. I swear you could almost see the flames burning inside of them.

Stay strong. Stand your ground. You've been through worse shit than this.

My heavy breathing starts to slow down. In the military, I was trained to slow down my heart rate in any situation that came my way. Drawing on that training, I begin to focus on my breathing, each inhale and exhale becoming more controlled and measured. The chaos around me fades slightly as I center myself, my heartbeat steadying with each passing second. Despite the pain and the blood, I find a small pocket of calm within the storm, readying myself for whatever comes next.

Locking eyes with him again, I plaster a crooked smile. My mouth filled with blood, covering my teeth. It begins trickling out even faster. "You hit like a fuckin' bitch."

I am getting the fuck out of here one way or another. I'm not going to fall. I will end this bastard or die trying.