Page 45 of Left In The Dark

“Hayden, if that’s you, I’m sorry, okay. Just untie me and I’ll do what you want.”

Nothing. Him standing there quietly is more nerve-racking than when he writes on that stupid pad.

“Please.”

Finally, he shakes his head. Not the answer I want, but it’s a fucking response, and I’m more satisfied with it than I should be. He’s not letting me go, but here I am feeling more at ease by watching him move again after playing lifeless mannequin for what felt like forever.

“Hayden.”

He stomps a foot on the ground and the bucket tips over.

“Can I at least have some water?”

Nodding, he grabs the bottle, twisting the cap and pouring it over me. I maneuver my head, trying to catch as much as I can with my mouth, and I choke on the last bit, triggering a coughing fit.

I lower my head, swallowing my sobs before he can hear them. “The floor got more than I did. Can’t you untie me and let me have some the normal way?”

He glances down at the floor and me, shaking his head slowly.

“Because pigs don’t drink from water bottles?” I scoff.

He gives me a thumbs up and kicks the metal bucket closer to me before undoing my pants.

“Wait. What are you . . .” My words stop when he wraps his fingers around my cock, pointing my piss hole toward the opening of the bucket.

I take a breath, closing my eyes, and my muscles relax enough when I pretend to be on a camping trip where I’ve had to do something similar. My bladder empties itself, the fast stream hitting hard on the metal. When I’m done, he gives me a shake, and tucks me back into my underwear.

“If you untie me, it’ll be less work for you.”

Lifting the bucket, he turns away, and lowers it to the ground with the rope before looking back at me. Then he picks up the empty plastic bottle and steps back down the ladder after tucking it into his back pocket.

Light shining through the windows starts to fade as I lie here, waiting for him to come back. I’m starving but also tired. So tired. But I’m scared to close my eyes because I don’t know what I’ll wake up to next.

It didn’t seem that he liked me calling him by his name. Is that because I got it wrong? He knew about the tower and who I went there to meet. He knew about Logan. Logan.

No. It’s not him. He wouldn’t have been able to refer to himself as a pig so easily. He hated the term. That was very clear the last time I used it on him. I can still feel the marks left behind from his fingers. What I’d give to have his hands on me again. It would mean I wasn’t here if they were. And I’d be free.

But also, Logan’s hands are like fucking magic. Those gloves touching my dick when my captor was here were rough on my skin, and I was scared of where it might lead to. Nothing inappropriate happened, though. He didn’t want me that way, with how clinical he was—the way someone would be at a hospital with a patient.

Am I angry about that? The fuck? It’s just me being delirious from lack of food and feeling in my limbs. I drag my body closer to the apple he left behind, sinking my teeth into the fruit and spitting when I almost swallow a mouthful of hay. Eating around the hay‑covered areas is too much of a challenge, so eventually I give up.

Eyes heavy, they flutter closed, and I lose the fight to stay awake, worrying as I slip away that I’ll regret not trying harder.

A creaking sound and metal hitting metal has my eyes flashing open. I watch as the ladder jumps and a different ski mask from before appears—blue, with a smiley face where the mouth opening should be. He has the same gloves on and similar clothes, and he’s holding the same bucket from earlier. He sets it next to me and separates my ankles from my wrists, leaving them tied up. The stretching of my muscles feels good, but also weird with the sandy sensation in my feet from them falling asleep.

“Did you bring more food?” I ask with my tongue sticking to the roof of my mouth, and he drops two sticks of celery. On the fucking hay. Being everywhere, it’s hard to avoid, but couldn’t he bring me a plate?

Pigs don’t eat from plates.

My thoughts are speaking for him now.

“Will I ever get any real food?”

He points to the celery and motions his head toward it.

“I’ll take that as a no.” I blow out an exasperated sounding breath. “Do I at least get the use of my hands?”

Blinking at me, his finger goes from the celery to my mouth. “This is what piglets eat,” is probably what he’s thinking.