ch. 13: Anchors

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Torture. Always, always torture, and it sucked.

I could hear my and Derek's phones buzzing as there was another current pushed through us and Peter.

Our phones were on the same table as knives and hammers and hatchets and saws and scissors and an electrical box.

Both Derek and Peter were shirtless, Derek's hands bound above his head, and Peter's to the side.

My shirt was ripped, shredded to the sides, my hands bound above my head.

Derek was in the middle of me and Peter, and we both turned our heads to glare at him.

"Why are you two looking at me like this is my fault?" Peter asked.

Derek turned his head away. "Because it is your fault."

Electricity crackled as one of our captors, dressed in black with black gloves, turned the notch up and pushed current through us again, all of us wincing, groaning and breathing heavily at the pain.

Then the current stopped.

"Yeah, you're probably right," Peter told us.

I glared toward him, asking with bitter sarcasm, "Really?"

Then the current was forced through us again.

When we got the hell out, I was gonna kick his ass.

And be happy while I did.

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