Oh, my God. I didn’t recognize the voice. Where was I? Who took me?
Fear gripped my spine, panic penetrating deep into the pit of my stomach. What did he mean with “up there?” What was happening?
Desperate and afraid, I turned my head as far as I could…until I caught a glimpse of a glinting chain hanging down from the ceiling right above me. Horror sent a shockwave of agony through my entire body, and I yanked forward, only to be pulled back by the worst pain I had ever experienced in my life. It stabbed into my back, shooting through every nerve as if a flame had been set alight inside me. It was excruciating, and I screamed. But the sound merely slammed against the tape across my mouth.
“What’s the matter, ballerina girl? You don’t like hanging from the ceiling? I think you look beautiful up there.”
Tears streamed down my face, dripping off my cheeks to join the pool of blood on the floor. I hung my head, and I could see my arms dangling, streaks of blood trickling down my skin…my hands…my fingers. Jesus, my fingers.
I moved my hand, opening my palm, and when I saw the gaping hole where my forefinger was supposed to be, terror slammed against my throat, and I couldn’t breathe. The raw ache of open flesh tore up my arm, and I could hear my heartbeat inside my head, throbbing pulses of pain violently zapping through me.
When my gaze dropped to the floor, I could see my severed finger surrounded by and covered with blood.
“It’s only fair for you to lose a finger since your friend suffered through the same.”
Again, I tried to look around, to see where the voice came from. But the more I tried to move, the stronger the pain became.
“God, you look exquisite up there. Like a swan.” A manic laugh filled the empty hollows in the room. “Swan Lake.”
The blood in my veins froze.
Swan Lake.
Neon.
“Please,”I tried to beg through my shut lips.“Please stop.”
It was only instinct for me to try to move, to get away. But as I jerked to the side, my skin exploded with blazing agony.
“Careful. You don’t want those hooks to tear through your flesh. You’ll never get rid of the scars then.”
Hooks?
Flesh?
Oh, my God.I was hanging from the ceiling with hooks pierced through my flesh…just like her. Like Neon.
No. No. No. No.
The fear that dug its claws into my stomach caused bile to rush up my throat and into my mouth. But I couldn’t spit it out. I couldn’t vomit because my lips were taped shut.
Jesus.I had to swallow it again. I had to swallow my own vomit, and it was vile, bitter and burning as it went back down my throat and up my nose. I could smell the sour stench, and then I felt the warmth of my own urine moving down my legs.
“Oh, poor ballerina girl. You pissed yourself. Is it scary? Is it horrifying to know you have iron hooks cut through your skin, digging into your flesh?”
At that moment, all I wanted to do was scream his name. I wanted to call out to him. I wanted to beg him to come and save me.
Granite. Help me!
But I couldn’t. I couldn’t cry for him to find me, to take away my pain. It made everything a hundred times worse knowing Granite couldn’t come for me. He couldn’t save me.
Not this time.
“Tell me, ballerina girl”—movement caught my eye, the figure of a man approaching—“how does that pussy of yours feel?”
My eyes widened as the man got closer.
“I have to admit, it was fun.”