I don’t get food—not even scraps.
And my only choice for water is the occasional trickle that seeps through the walls when it rains that I’m forced to lick from the dirty bricks. I resort to drinking my own pee in hopes of getting the tiniest drops of liquid. But I haven’t peed in days.
I’ve lost track of time. How many days have passed and how many left to endure?
My body won’t survive much longer. It aches to move, to think, to breathe.
So I don’t do anything.
I’ve even learned to shut off my mind.
I just exist.
And then I see the flicker of the gun that rests in the corner. I could end this.
Yes, that’s what I’ll do. End this.
I just have to make it to the gun.
Move body, move!
Now that I’ve made my decision, I want it to end—now.
But I can barely think, let alone move.
E
very thought becomes a struggle.
I reach one arm out, then the other. Now pull my body forward as my legs push. I gain an inch. Then another. And another.
Until my fingers brush against the gun.
I smile for the first time in weeks.
This is going to end. I’m going to end it. I’ll piss off father, leave him without an heir. That thought alone sparks my happiness. My final act won’t be to kill my father, but myself. That will enrage him more than anything else ever could.
I grasp the gun and put it to my head.
My hands are shaky, but it doesn’t matter if I miss the center of my head as long as I hit some part of my body. I’m too weak to handle a gunshot. I’ll die from blood loss within minutes. It will just prolong my agony.
I keep my eyes open staring into the dark abyss, and then I pull the trigger.
CLICK.
Shit.
I remove the gun from my head and pull again.
Nothing.
The bastard removed the fucking bullets.
I fling the gun towards the wall, but my arms are too weak for it to even reach it. The metal falls to the dirt with a soft thud.
That’s when the door flies open, and my father’s chuckles fill the room.
“You failed. You’re weak. I think it’s time I teach you a lesson.”