“Please just kill me,” Emory whispered in a voice that wasn’t her own. A thin, dry voice that sanded the back of her throat. It was the voice of a girl she didn’t want to know.
The music was gone, replaced with a loud ringing she knew was only in her mind but seemed to echo off the walls anyway. It fed the migraine, which grew from a headache that grew from her singular desire to just die rather than endure another hour of this hell.
The music was gone, again. But it would be back. The music always came back.
The last song to play was “Whole Lotta Love” by Led Zeppelin. She knew the song but had no idea from where. That the name of the band came so easily when she couldn’t recall the day of the week surprised her. They sang “Stairway to Heaven,” and she had been waiting for that one. She had heard the song four times already since waking in this place, and she was beginning to think of the little tune as her official marker of another day past, but it hadn’t played today. Or had it? When did it play last? She couldn’t remember. She couldn’t remember anything.
You’re dehydrated, dear. I think your hand is infected now too. You’re quite the mess. Nobody is going to ask you to prom in this state, that’s for sure.
Her hand probably was infected. The pain throbbing at her wrist nearly matched that of her head.
She refused to touch the wrist again.
She wouldn’t do that.
No, sir.
The last time she touched the wrist, it didn’t feel like part of her at all. It felt like a stuffed glove. It was so swollen—at least twice its normal size—and the flesh around the cuffs had become all damp and mushy. Oddly, that part didn’t hurt as much as the wrist itself, and she couldn’t help but wonder why that was. Had the cuffs severed the nerves?
The bones sat at the oddest angle too, her fingers pointing back in a direction they were not meant to point, the kind of gesture only cartoon characters seemed to make. It wasn’t good; it wasn’t good at all.
She should take her pulse again, but such things didn’t seem important anymore.
I bet you could eat a rat.
“I’m not going to eat a rat,” Emory replied, rubbing her temple. “I’d rather die.”
Would you, dear? Because I would rather eat a rat. I would eat a rat without giving it a second thought, if I happened to be in your position. You could snap its little neck and use the sharp edge of the gurney to slice it open. If you do it quick, the meat would still be warm. It would be like eating leftover chicken from the bucket. You’ve done that; I’ve seen you.
“I will not eat a rat,” Emory said again, this time louder, more defiant.
It’s so dark, you could pretend you were eating just about anything. How about ribs? You love ribs.
Emory’s stomach gurgled.
It’s not like your friends would find out, and even if they did, do you think they would blame you? I bet they would congratulate you on your bravery and resourcefulness.
Although Emory couldn’t see any rats, she was sure more than one occupied her cell. On occasion they ran across her feet and legs when she was lying on the ground. Even now, as she sat on the top of the gurney, she felt something watching her. The hair on the back of her neck stood on end. Can rats see in the dark? Had she pondered that already? She no longer remembered.
Of course, you’d need to catch one first. Oh, I think you should try, don’t you? It would be our little secret. I promise, I won’t tell anyone. A little meal would do you so much good. You’d get your strength back, you’d be able to concentrate. Maybe you’d be able to revisit this little dilemma and come up with a way to get out. I hear rat is excellent brain food, good for the memory.
Emory closed her eyes and took a deep breath, then began counting backward from ten in an attempt to shut out the voice. When she reached one, all was silent.
I bet their eyes taste like candy.
“Shut up!” she shouted.
“I. Will. Not. Eat. A. Rat!”
Suit yourself, sweetie. I’m pretty sure they won’t hesitate to eat you, though, when you finally starve to death. They’re probably drawing straws right now to see who gets the first nibble.
A loud click.
Emory’s vision went blinding white. She squeezed her eyes shut, and when that wasn’t enough, she pressed her face into her leg and covered it with her arm. It didn’t help, though. She saw pink through it all, she saw the blood vessels of her eyelids. Her surroundings flooded with light, and it was so bright, it burned.
She heard someone shriek, a horrible cry echoing all around her. It wasn’t until she gulped a breath that she realized the scream came from her. She swallowed it back and went silent, save for the pounding of her heart and the wheeze of each drawn breath.
Emory forced herself to open her eyes, and through the tears she could tell the bright light came from far above. She arched her back and faced up, looked toward it.
A shadow moved high above, impossibly high above, and with the shadow came a voice, a voice that echoed down to her and reverberated off the walls, sounding as if he stood only a few feet away.
“Hi, Emory. Sorry it took me so long to visit. I’ve been a very busy boy.”
65
Diary
I don’t recall sleeping, but I must have drifted off at some point because I had lain down on my back and was now on my side with a little pool of drool on the pillow beside me. I still wore the clothes I had worn yesterday, with the exception of my tennis shoes, because shoes should never be worn while lying on a bed, whether above the covers or not. Father told both Mother and me it would be best if we remained dressed so we could act quickly should Mr. Stranger return during the night.
According to the clock on my nightstand, it was nearly eight.
I rose, stretched, and went to my door.
I had placed my chair under the knob again last night. I was fairly certain Mother no longer wished to hurt me, but I figured it was better to err on the side of caution.
The chair groaned as I pushed it aside, opened the door, and stepped out into the hallway.
I found Father asleep on the couch again. Perhaps he was passed out. An empty bottle of Captain Morgan spiced rum lay on the floor at his side, and he was snoring rather loudly.
The door to my parents’ room was closed. Mother was most likely sound asleep as well. Both had been up late into the night, discussing our current situation. I wanted to stay with them, but Father insisted I get some rest. I think he also wanted to speak to Mother alone.
While I am fully aware that eavesdropping is not the proper behavior of a budding young gentleman, I listened anyway. Unfortunately, they anticipated my actions, because they kept their voices to a low muffle completely indecipherable from my location. I imagine it didn’t end well if Mother slept alone in the bedroom and Father found himself on the couch for the second night in a row. Unless, of course, he’d decided to stand watch. Had he assigned such a task to himself, he was doing a poor job.