Merciless

38

The car ride back to wherever Damien was taking me was filled with a heavy silence. My mind was consumed by the events that had unfolded since this man entered my life. It had only been a few days, but it felt like an eternity. I yearned to understand the deeper history of our relationship. We had known each other since childhood, but the memories felt distant, almost like fleeting dreams. The confusion gnawed at me, causing a persistent headache. Groaning inwardly, I placed my hand on my head, gently massaging my temples.

"Rosa?" Damien's concerned voice broke through the silence of the car.

"Hmm?" I responded, still keeping my eyes closed, continuing my attempt to alleviate the throbbing in my head. What could he possibly want now? I couldn't help but wonder.

Suddenly, I was pulled towards a warm body, my hand instinctively moving away from my head. I gasped in surprise at the sudden movement. Now, I found myself seated on Damien's lap, his hand resting on my head.

"Hey, what are you..." My protest trailed off as I finally took in his appearance. The cold exterior he often wore had faded, replaced by genuine concern. His forehead creased with a frown, and his expression was troubled.

And then it hit me.

"Your head feels hot," he muttered, his hand now gently cupping my throat.

Was he... concerned about me? He must have noticed me rubbing my head. I hadn't even realized he was watching me.

"The rest of your body feels fine," he stated. "Thank God. You must be exhausted from the events today." At this point, it seemed like he was talking more to himself than to me. It felt strange.

This feeling... it was all too familiar. It felt like it had happened before. But where? The more I tried to recall, the more my headache intensified. It was frustrating. The pain in my head escalated, and I couldn't help but close my eyes, seeking solace in relaxation. I desperately wanted answers.

I felt his hand wipe something beneath my eye. When I opened them, his face was inches away from mine. He was looking directly into my eyes, his expression filled with alarm once again. But why? Then it dawned on me—something wet was gliding down my cheek. Wait...

Was I crying?

Bringing my own hand up, I realized that my eyes were shedding tears uncontrollably. And with that realization, the dam of frustration and confusion within me burst.

I couldn't stop the tears, and I didn't know how to. They streamed down my face, and I found myself sobbing uncontrollably.

"Shit!" Damien cursed, sounding lost. He seemed unsure of how to handle the situation. "Baby, what's wrong? What happened?" His voice held genuine concern. "Rosa? Rosaa..." he called out, but as the darkness threatened to consume me, I couldn't help but wonder why he cared so deeply. Why did his care feel so foreign and painful? Those were the last thoughts that crossed my mind before succumbing to the void as I passed out.

The dreams never ceased. Each time, they grew more vivid, but thinking about them afterward only intensified my headaches.

When I awoke, the dread that washed over me felt like a tidal wave crashing against my senses. I had just experienced another haunting dream, yet this time, it didn't involve Damien. It was something entirely different.

The setting was dark and foreboding, with a line of girls standing in a row. The air was heavy and humid, the floor beneath us wet and slippery. None of us knew whether it was water, sweat, or blood that coated the ground.

We trembled, shivering in fear, and some of the girls couldn't help but cry.

I regretted venturing out, placing myself in this nightmarish situation.

I despised every moment of it. I had no clue what to do, no certainty whether Damien would ever find me. Why had I left the safety of my home? That question echoed relentlessly in my mind.

The room had a sandy texture on the floor and cave-like walls. There were no windows, only a small iron door.

I overheard a brown-haired girl whisper to another with black hair, "How long have you been here?"

The brown-haired girl's eyes were filled with tears, her body drenched in sweat. The black-haired girl's gaze was hollow, her clothes dirty, her cheekbones sunken as if she hadn't eaten in days.

"Two weeks," she murmured, her eyes fixed on the wall. She seemed broken, as if she had endured unimaginable suffering. "I've been here for two weeks."

The brown-haired girl's tears welled up even more. And I couldn't blame her. Whoever had kidnapped us had brought us here together. I had awakened in this place, still wearing my jewelry, accessories, and a simple white shirt.

Initially, both of us had panicked, but as the burning headache persisted, I found myself giving up on panic, my mind focusing on trying to make sense of the situation.

The brown-haired girl, however, remained in a state of distress. She began to panic as the door swung open.

All our heads snapped toward the entrance, except for the black-haired girl. She continued staring into space, her gaze distant. She appeared utterly broken.

Through the door, an elderly woman adorned in ostentatious clothing and jewelry appeared. Behind her, I could see the shadows of two burly men—guards, most likely.

She surveyed the room filled with fifteen girls, her eyes lingering on the brown-haired girl and two others. A smirk curved on her lips, and she murmured something to the men standing outside. Chaos ensued. They entered the room, dragging away the screaming, sobbing girls. One girl would cling to another, begging for someone to save her, but the men would forcefully separate them and drag the chosen girl away.

Each one was taken like that. Their screams echoed through the room, haunting us. In the end, only two of us remained in that small space—the black-haired girl, who seemed strangely unfazed, and myself, curled on the floor, tears streaming down my face. From the cacophony of voices that reverberated in the room, I was certain my own cries would linger as a haunting memory.

The old woman returned and said something in a language I couldn't understand. "глупый ребенок, сгнивай здесь, мне все равно," she spat. ("Stupid child, rot away in here for all I care.")

Then she left the room.

I remained curled up on the floor, crying.

"They're going to sell us at an auction," a soft voice spoke up. It was the black-haired girl—the one the old woman had called Yankova. She hadn't moved, still staring off into space. I saw a single tear roll down her pale face.

I lifted my tear-streaked face to look at her. The room was empty now, but her voice echoed within it.

I didn't know how to react, so I remained as I was—scared, regretting my decision to leave home, and wishing Damien were here.