Must Date The Chef

|| 32.

Mike finally notices my pitiful state, he tucks the gun out of sight and lifts his hand like the conductor of a church choir. My eyes follow his movements, my chest rises and falls in rhythm with his hand gestures, in a couple of seconds, I am breathing normally again. He takes steps away from me, the air grows thick with awkward silence, I swallow and look away from him.

"My father used to say that," I say when I find him back to his former position on the chair, the distance between us sufficient enough for my fears to take a backseat. "He is dead." I look at my trousers, I will burn them once I get out of here. "Thank you."

We sit in uncomfortable silence, my eyes set on the wall behind him, I hate the colour blue now. Green too. "Who's your father?"

Without much ado, I reply him. I don't care if he won't use his gun to get the answer, I don't want to ever see it again. Mike goes silent, then he jumps out of his seat to stalk towards me like a predator to its prey. I shake my head and sink my fingernails into the chair so hard they start to hurt. I thought we had an unspoken agreement.

The first thing he does is to untie me, I gasp in relief and my eyes water from the sheer shock of being able to feel my legs again. A sound escapes me as I massage them, he motions for me to stand, I rise on wobbly feet, trying not to fall back into the chair.

"Move." I take a step forward, the slowest I have ever taken in my life. "Faster. Move." His breath blows on my neck but he doesn't lend me a hand and I continue the painful journey until my legs touch the wooden material of the bed. "Move. Lie down."

Trying to delay what I fear will happen, I hold out my hands in front of me when I feel his presence behind me. My lips tremble, I yelp when he shoves me onto the stone mattress and scramble as far away from him as I can get. With my lower back resting against the wall, chin pressed to my knees, I wrap my arms around my legs and wait. I don't know how long I stay that way but it's long enough for me to start rocking from side to side in a bid to stay awake.

The door opens, no, it closes, I don't know, I am not sure but I am past caring. Of what use is that knowledge if it's not Paul walking in through the door? I look up when a material falls over me, a material that can pass off as a blanket and Mike wordlessly makes his way to the door.

"Sleep," he mutters with his back to me and I hug myself. "I hope for both of our sakes your lover can convince his father."

With that, he is gone and the room descends into darkness. I stagger out of the bed, my hands out in front of me as I find my way to the door with my memory to guide me. It is locked. I moan in pain when my toe hits one of the chairs, I limp to the bed and wait for the pain to subside. A yawn escapes me, my eyelids grow heavier and I reach out blindly for the blanket. Curling into a foetal position, I pull the blanket over my head, too tired to fight the sleep calling out to me.

*   *   *

Seconds roll into minutes, minutes into hours and hours into days, I am now an expert sound interpreter. If I am right, if the light filtering in through the tiny space between the closed window is a sign to go by, I have been here for five days. Five whole days of being held against my will.

The elections must have happened by now.

If I survive this nightmare, if I don't go crazy from talking to myself, I might get a side job for my new ability to navigate through the dark. Or, put it as a side note on my CV about how much I love camping in the dark, falling for men who will lie to me and make promises they can never keep. I won't fail to mention how much I love being kept in the dark about things that might put my life in danger. Oh, how I love being kidnapped.