5.3
I jolt awake to the clicking of the door. My eyes dart to the door. It was just latching close, and the room remained empty. I realize I am now on the bed, the blanket wrapped around me. The sun must’ve set as the room is much darker than before.
What is that smell?
I look over to the chair where Bugsy usually sits and sitting there, carefully balanced, is a bowl. Tearing the blanket off me I pick up the bowl, mindful of its contents. The bowl is hot and some of the liquid inside splashes onto my hand. As gently as I could, I put the bowl back down. Next to it is a piece of bread.
Yum, bread and soup.
There is no spoon, but I do not mind. I drink it gleefully. The warmth fills me as I try to not finish it too quickly. It’s obviously just canned soup but it’s the best tasting thing I’ve had in a long time. Sopping up the remnants of it with the bread is so delicious, I only feel satisfied for a moment before my stomach aches for more.
I could down a couple more bowls for sure.
The minimal light in the room is fading fast. I figured someone would be back to collect the bowl, so I crawled back into the bed. Unfortunately, I don’t think I could sleep again. I must’ve slept for several hours already, and the bowl of soup just agitated my hunger pains. I lay with the blanket over me, staring up into the darkness. My mind is blank. My face feels puffy, and my eyes are tired from crying so much. The ceiling creaks, people upstairs are walking back and forth.
What is the deal with this house? Does Bugsy and Jett live here? Or do they just keep people like me here? How many of them are there? Are there more people like me here? How much more time do I have here?
There’s soft knock at the door, which I find strange as I turn to my side away from the door as a dim light floods the room. Bugsy must be back. No one else would knock before they entered their captive’s room. I pull the blanket up to my face. Bugsy crosses the room quietly and picks up the empty bowl from the chair. My eyes are low, I do not look directly at him. He leans down, leaving the bowl next to him on the floor. Then he speaks softly, and gently.
“Sorry, I know you’re still probably hungry. That’s all I could get away with.”
I want to say I understand, but I say nothing. There’s silence for several minutes. Why does it always feel like he’s on the brink of saying something, but holding back? He seems more nervous than I do…
“Hey, um… can I ask…” Bugsy pauses. I almost shift my head to look at him, my curiosity peaks. “What is your name?” he finally lets out.
I didn’t know what I was expecting, but it wasn’t that. Why would I tell him my name? Why would he want to know my name? Several more silent minutes pass. Instead of just freely giving him an answer, I decided to ask my own question.
“How many people are upstairs?”
“There are ten of us.” He answers reluctantly.
“How often do you leave the house?”
“We have shifts and… look if you’re trying to plan an escape, its- just don’t, okay? It won’t work.”
“When are you planning on moving me?”
“Well, we’ve had some supply issues and… they’re still negotiating, we- we don’t know right now. Maybe a week?”
I feel anger and fear burning inside me. Yet, I am surprised with how willingly he is telling me these things. I wonder how much more I can push it. I turn my head slightly to face him. Given how dark it is, all I can see is the shape of his body leaning towards me on the bed. I can’t help but remember how kind he has been to me, all things considered.
“Will you help me escape?” My voice is an extremely low whisper, but I know he hears me because he leans back in his chair, taken aback by the direct question.
Silence hangs in the room for several minutes. I turned back to fully face away from him.
“It’s not that simple.” His voice a whisper too, sounds conflicted… almost heart broken.
That was not a no.
“My name is Olivia.”
Comments (0)
See all