Chapter 9 The Game
LILA POV
The lights went off and my heart got lodged in my throat. I saw nothing but black around me, and my lack of vision made the panic inside me spike. I never even realized that I had the privilege of light until it got taken away.
Now here I was, trapped in a room...in the dark. I had no way of knowing what his next move would be, why he felt it necessary to have me trapped in the dark. But something told me that this was all part of his game. A dangerous game that I hoped I had the courage to play.
I pulled my legs closer to my chest and buried my face between my arms. I would make my own darkness by closing my eyes and hiding my face, rather than endure his.
Rocking back and forth I tried my best to ignore my fear, and the hunger pangs that plagued my insides. I've never hated my body this much. The way my stomach growled, my throat burning with thirst. I was so damn hungry and thirsty, I felt like I could become a savage at any moment. But I refused to eat. Fuck him. Fuck everyone.
Before he cast me in complete darkness, I glanced over at the gift box filled with bread. My body urged me to grab the bread and stuff as much as possible into my mouth. But with every last shred of self-control I had, I kept myself contained. So secretly I was thankful for the darkness, that gift box no longer able to taunt me with the promise of feeling full again.
I shifted down and huddled together on the mattress, hoping sleep would take me, that I would wake up and this would all be gone. But the more I tried to sleep, it seemed less likely that it would happen. There was too much adrenaline pumping through my veins, my hunger too strong to ignore. I couldn't concentrate on getting some sleep.
But honestly, what woman who had been kidnapped with the promise of being murdered would be able to fucking sleep?
The longer I lay there in the dark, the more my mind drifted into crazy, scary directions. I tried to find a focus point, a happy place as people called it. I imagined myself in my art studio, listening to music, painting, getting lost in my own little world. The colors, the way it all came together just gave me a sense of tranquility. After Nikolai left-which was what I thought back then-I threw myself into my work. The only difference was I added a bottle of scotch into my creative process. The more time passed with Nikolai being gone, the darker the colors would get, the angrier the canvases would become. I used my pen and my paintbrush as a way to get rid of the pain, rather than a knife or a razor. With every stripe across the canvas, I would imagine it was a cut through my heart. The paint would bleed down the white background in drops of angry tears, just like the blood would bleed from my body.
After my parents discovered the scars on my skin, they saw me as an addict crying out for help. They forced me to see therapists, tried to figure out what went wrong in my life. But it wasn't anything like that. Most people got addicted to alcohol, drugs, cigarettes...the slice of a blade, because they needed something to help them escape, something to ease whatever it was that ate at them from the inside. My addiction to pain wasn't because I needed an escape from a fucked up childhood or a screwed up past. Even though I had to live in the shadow of my father, being the daughter of the famous William Linscott, I had a fairly good childhood. My parents loved me. I had a life of excess and privilege, and never wanted for anything. My addiction for pain was purely because I craved it. It wasn't something that could be explained. There was no rhyme or reason for the intense need I had to experience pain, to control my body by pushing my limits, by proving to myself that my mind was stronger than my body was. It was just...me.
I tightened my grip around my legs, trying not to think of it, trying not to think about how good it felt to see my body bleed, reminding me that I was alive. Not only did it give me the best kind of relief, but the euphoria I experienced along with the pain was something I couldn't describe to anyone. No one understood it. Everyone saw it as a psychological flaw, a switch inside my brain which no longer worked right. In reality they were probably right-in their reality. My reality was something far different than everyone else's. I don't know how long it was that I lay there, lost in my own thoughts-thoughts of my life, my family...Nikolai...the lies. So far everything pointed to Nikolai being a liar, deceiving me by pretending to be someone he wasn't. But why would he do that? Why would he lie? Even if he was like all the other men, only pretending to love me to get access to my family's wealth, why would he pretend to be someone he wasn't? It didn't make any sense.
Thinking about it let a sadness drop over me like a veil of black. Everything about Nikolai and I was a lie. There was no truth in it, no truth in the words and the promises he made.
Damn him. Damn him to hell.
The light flicked on. I jerked up and opened my eyes, closing them as fast as I had opened them, the light stinging my eyes. "Hello, little pet."
My eyes slowly flickered open, adjusting to the light. Nico was standing by the door wearing another one of his designer suits, a whirlwind of power and confidence swirling around him. "I trust you slept well."
I sat up straight and rubbed my eyes which were still sensitive to the bright light. "Like a fucking baby."
"Now-now, Miss Falcone. There's no need for such language."
"There's no need to keep me here like a goddamn prisoner either."
"Oh yes there is, believe me." He stepped back disappearing from the door for a few seconds. I leaned forward, narrowing my eyes, wondering what he was up to.
Then he came strolling into the room pushing a trolley with four silver domes. The second he came to a standstill with the trolley only a few feet from me, I smelled it. Oh my God. Food.
There were so many different aromas, It all smelled so goddamn delicious that I had to fist my hands, pushing my nails painfully in the flesh of my palms to stop myself from launching forward to grab anything and everything off that trolley.
"Are you hungry, Miss Falcone?" Nico smiled, before glancing over his shoulder to the gift box with the stale bread pieces and human finger. He turned back and shrugged. "I guess not."