Anticipation rushes through my system, forcing my lungs to work on overtime to accommodate my short, rapid breaths. It’s like being in the middle of the climb of a roller coaster. What I think is a pause is actually Jiro wrapping the ends of my hair in his fist. He positions his foot against the lip of my chair and yanks hard. My head falls back so fast I momentarily think he might have snapped my neck. Since I can still feel my arms and legs, I figure I’m not paralyzed.
With one swift move, he slices at the ponytail he’s created with his fist. A whish later, the base of my skull throbs. He showers me with my hair until a round piece falls on my lap. It takes me a second to realize it’s a section of my scalp. As if a switch is flipped, my brain ceases all proper functions.
That’s when the screaming starts.
Chapter Twenty-Nine
A SPLASH of something cold and wet soaks my naked body on the floor. It doesn’t smell foul, so it must be water. Last time they woke me up via a morning shower, it had been with a nice bath of the freshest sewer water they could find. I wouldn’t have been surprised if they had used their own toilet flushings. Today, by some strange act of mercy, they decide to use regular, run-of-the-mill water. Maybe even drinking water.
Without opening my eyes, I take advantage of what they have given me and insert my fingers into my mouth and suck on the excess moisture. The pad of my tongue is rough from dehydration. Unsatisfied, I begin to lick at my palm all the way up my arm until my tongue passes an open wound they’d lined with salt. I hiss as the coarse seasoning pushes into the cut. Stupid me. It’s bad enough the underboss introduces me to his fists every chance he gets; now I have to add to my own pain? He must have knocked me around so bad that my brain is officially scrambled.
If I thought my body hurt after flying off the bike during my chase scene with Viper, it’s nothing compared to the numbness I feel now. Someone once told me pain is the way your body tells you something is wrong. What happens when you hardly feel anything at all? I’m even immune to the stench of urine and feces. There isn’t a place on my body that the underboss and his men haven’t abused or violated. He made good on his promise to take everything from me, shredding every bit of dignity I possessed. I’m nothing but a lump of used clay ready to be thrown out. The underboss fucked me up good.
He even denied visitors.
Once, during one of my more lucid moments away from the torture, I overheard the guards posted at the other side of the door to my prison boasting about how good it felt to turn away the boss’s daughter and his head of security. My heart leaped at the thought of Zamara and Brody coming, but a part of me was thankful they hadn’t been allowed. I never wanted them to see me this way.
Unlike the time Bedlam detained me, I didn’t entertain thoughts of escape. At Bedlam’s townhouse, I only had him to deal with. I’m currently being held in the underboss’s compound—one of the most heavily guarded fortresses in Terra One. The worst part is if I did manage to get out of this room, they wouldn’t kill me. Oh no. They would keep me alive, maybe shoot out a kneecap, drag me back here, and really make things hurt.
Normally I would be plotting revenge. The sad part is I don’t even have the strength to think, much less envision inflicting payback for the way they’ve treated me. I died the day the boss handed me over to his subordinate to maintain peace in his city. All I need is for my body to cease functioning, and my death will be complete. I don’t know what day it is, but I’m more than ready for the needle. I want this to end, find my release. I’ve served my time for my crime. But something tells me it’s not that easy. It never is with the Mob.
The steel tip of a boot finds its way to my gut. The force of the kick lifts my body off the ground several inches and slams my back against the wall. I wrap my arms around my middle and curl into the smallest ball possible. What little water I did manage to swallow didn’t wet my throat enough to allow it to produce sound, so the groan never leaves my insides.
“Get up, maggot!” one of my guards commands in his gruff voice. He’s been smoking at least two packs a day from the butts he loves extinguishing on my skin.
Not waiting for the second kick I know is coming if I don’t comply, I heave myself to my hands and knees. I drag as much air into my lungs as I can, preparing myself for the effort it will take. My limbs shake so badly, I have to use the wall for support, pushing against it so I can get up. For a second, I forget my left ankle is broken. A souvenir from my trip to the salon from hell among other things. I stopped touching my head after that first day. When I place weight on both my feet, I cry out—a small, pathetic squeak. I immediately shift all my weight—whatever remains in my skin-and-bones state—to my right foot to keep from passing out. The numbness comes and
