Mischief

Chapter 37

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-Ivy's POV-

As much as I hate to admit it, things did not go my way. I am now back in my stupid, stuffy cell except now I am strapped into a solid, medieval-looking, iron chair that I swear is actually indestructible. I have been trying to get free of this torture chair for the past two hours and so far, have only achieved red, irritating scratches on my wrists and ankles. This thing is stuck into the ground somehow and doesn't budge the slightest bit. I am stuck.

I have not seen anyone since Ace had a rage at me and ordered four of his men to 'aggressively escort' me back to my cell. I wonder how long they are just going to leave me in here for. I mean, I haven't eaten in a while and I don't really do well without human contact. It won't be long before I lose my mind and make a friend out of a specific brick on the wall. What gender should it be? I reckon a boy... He will be very smart and will have a nice smile. I wonder what I should call it? Should I pre-plan my names? James? Russel? Oh I know! Collin! Yes that's perfect.

My brilliant train of thought cho-cho's away as the cell door creaks open. I glance over to see a scary, tattooed covered man wearing a creepy mask and had a black kit in his hand. He locks the door behind him and places the kit down, opening it up. Oh no.

Inside the small black box of horrors was at least fifteen different little torture devices, half of which I didn't even know existed. I chuckle nervously. "Hey I really don't think there is any need for that..." I trail off as he begins wrapping tape around his knuckles. I'm actually going to die.

I wonder if Alex will come find me? I mean, that traitorous bitch owes me for not telling me he used to be buddies with my newfound sworn enemy.

Tattoo man wastes no time hurting me and my feelings. He throws punches and I hate to admit that he was actually really strong. I could feel bruises begin to form all over my face and my arms and stomach where he had hit me.

My lip was busted and my leg was itching and stinging. Some freaky doctor had come in after I had been strapped to the chair and put some weird, stinging cream on my leg and then messily tied a bandage around it. I could already feel the infection coming along. I looked so stupid right now. The doctor had to cut my jeans on one side up by my thigh to put on the dressing so now my jeans were half denim shorts and I looked like a hippie-freak. To make matters worse, my cell was cold and smelt like shit and my chair was giving my back cramps.

"Where is Alexander?" Tattoo guy asks darkly. I shake my head sightly at him. He places one last punch to my nose before turning and striding up to the torture kit. Oh well, my life is over.

He comes back with a simple knife and pushes my sleeve up, holding the knife to my arm. "Tell me," I spit the blood in my mouth at his face and grin up at him. "Get fucked," I sneer. Without hesitating, he digs the tip of the knife into my forearm and begins to make tiny gashes all the way up to my shoulder. It stung like a motherfucker and I was doing everything in my power not to cry. I can't cry, he will know he is extremely good at his job. I don't want him to have that satisfaction, at least not that easily.

I spent another good five hours in that goddamn chair, being tortured by whoever the fuck this evil, heartless man was. He had tried out every single one of his torture devices on my, some more horrific and morbid than others, but I still didn't break. I was pretty proud of myself to be honest. It had been a long fucking day and I just wanted to sleep. I was alone in my cell now, sitting in the dark, shivering.

I wonder if they will feed me? Maybe I will die of starvation or something. 

I don't even know how long I sat there for, wide awake and unable to even catch a glimpse of sleep. It felt like fucking hours and it might have been. Considering I am in the basement, my cell didn't have any natural light and it turns out there is a screen that comes over the small window on the door, blocking out any light emanating from the hallway.

I thought about Elijah, everything Ace had told me about Alex and how on earth I was supposed to get out of here.

After a while, the man with crazy tattoos came back, holding the same black kit except this time, he had a small plate and a sippy cup. He has got to be kidding me. "I am not a fucking baby. What even is that?" I squint in the dim light at the strange, murky liquid in the small cup.

He ignores me and places the plate on my lap. There was a squashed bread roll and something that looked like meatloaf, and smelt like roadkill.

I honestly just about threw up in my mouth. He shoves the sippy cup into my face and I awkwardly take a sip. It tasted like normal water... I was just a little thrown off by the grey-ish color or it. I down the whole lot. I had what I imagined was partially a dehydration headache and my lips were cracked and dry. He throws the cup to the side and pulls out a measly plastic fork. He separates a small piece of the meatloaf and brings it up to my lips and I purse them, turning my head. Whatever this stuff was, it smelt like it had been sitting in the sun for a week.

"He pokes it into my cheek and I cringe. "Fuck off! I'm not eating your prison food!" I state, attempting to push the fork away with my cheek. "Fine, fucking starve then." He puts the fork down on the plate and leaves it in my lap. He turns and walks out, slamming the door shut behind me.

Aw no... I think I hurt his feelings...

Well, at least I haven't been punched or stabbed again so far. I honestly just need to find a decent pastime. All I have is counting the bricks on the wall and imagining situations where Elijah isn't a murderous wretch and comes to save me or Alex decided to show up after realizing I cleverly fooled the care people at the airport and then ran to my own demise.

Oh, I know! I will recite poetry!

At a guess, three hours went by. I ended up becoming so hungry that I ate the stupid meatloaf-roadkill. Luckily for me, it tasted like absolutely nothing. I struggled for a good ten minutes trying to pick up the fork with my mouth from off the plate. I think I may have pulled a muscle in my shoulder while trying to awkwardly bend my back and neck down enough to grab the flimsy plastic fork with my teeth. Eating it was even worse, I had to get the fork into my hand and then lifted my knees as much as they could physically go while still being strapped to this chair and strained my wrists to pick up the meatloaf, then having to crane my neck to eat each bite.

It is official, I will definitely need a chiropractor if I make it out of here alive.

Right time for another haiku. I had already created seven so far.

The - sheep - were hun-gry.

The - sheep - like - to - eat - the - grass.

The - sheep - are - now - full.

I swear I am improving, this is the best one so far. My previous one was about airplanes.

The door suddenly slams open and in comes my good, old friend; the tattooed man. "Hey dude, I missed you," I mutter coldly as he goes to the kit that was left on the table. He simply scoffs in response and pulls out his favorite knife, a small, engraved switchblade that is too sharp for my own good. He turns to me with the same, menacing smile and begins to walk forward.

Here we go again.

. . . 

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