The Prisoner Project

FOURTY ONE

Being forced to be on high-alert the whole time was tiring me out.

Hours flew by. It could've been minutes. I couldn't tell.

I decided to try.

I stood, moving towards the door I had come from and pulled the handle. Just as I thought, it was bolted shut from the outside. "Hank...?" I muttered, praying he would hear me and somehow, release me from this excruciating wait.

God, the room was so hot. I felt the material of my vest cling to my chest and back. My face was blotchy. My hair was messed up from both my hands fussing and running through it.

Hank's words echoed in my head and mocked me. Go in and wait. Of course, this wasn't an accident. He hated me. If anything, he had done this on purpose. I would wait here in constant fear of the unknown. Coward. I saw glimpses of my reflection in the silver of the cuffs and scrunched my nose in disapproval. I looked dishevelled. My hair was messy, my eyes were swollen from my constant crying and my entire face felt inflamed and blotchy. Mentally too, I was dishevelled. I had just been told that I was going to be killed.

Anyone would lose their mind.

I turned around to face the sparse room and slid down the door, leaning my head against the cold metal of my exit. This room held a terrifying amount of familiarity. It carried my deepest secrets. It held hands with my grief. Feeling helpless, alone and utterly betrayed, I cried again, a few pitiful sobs for my well-being.

Hugh would have glared at me and called me a 'pussy'. What the hell are you crying about? He would always say. When I explained that it was because I failed a test, he would rip the test sheet apart. When I had scraped my knee on my skateboard, he had broken it in half. Being young and naive, I had assumed it was his twisted way of caring about me. How wrong was I. After all, he never cared whenever it was he who caused my tears.

He didn't love me.

No one did.

I pulled my knees towards my chest and rested my head against them. Fatigue was slowly consuming me. I closed my eyes, drifting into restless sleep on the cold hard floor of the interview room.

It was altogether anti-climatic.

It must've been a few more hours that had passed before I was awoken by a certain tenderness that I had not experienced in a long while. 

I felt fingertips graze my cheek and stirred. I heard his voice against my ears before I felt him. "Wake up, Aria."

I stiffened almost immediately.

My eyes fluttered open and I came face to face with the man who had haunted me in reality and dreams. His eyes were dark, almost black, in the fluorescent light of the room. He was crouched before me, one hand on my face and the other at his side, bandaged from his wrists to the spot above his elbows.

When my eyes met his, he stood and stepped away from me. Towering above, his hooded eyes assessed my position on the ground.

After a beat, his brows lifted in surprise. "You're handcuffed."

I was too stunned to act appropriately. He looked ungodly.

It was the way he towered above me. His hands were free, hung at his sides. The sleeves of his uniform were folded up against his forearms, revealing old scars I had never seen. His unruly curls fell in his face, hiding the slant of his furrowed brows. His cheeks hollowed on a frown. He had touched me. He had seen me in my most vulnerable state. He had seen me with tears streaked against my cheeks in an uneasy slumber.