Page 84 of Volatile

Vitali’s voice is barely an audible whisper, but it has my eyes closing in relief he’s alive.

We’re moving and the sounds of tires rolling over the road are dulled. But we’re both okay and something settles inside of me to stop the panic knowing he’s with me. I twist my fingers, reaching for him to check if he’s bleeding, but he hardens and says too loudly. “Don’t hold my hand, you’re not my girl, remember.”

He’s an actual fucking crazy person.

I’ve been kidnapped with someone who is arguing about a relationship instead of the fact we’ve been fucking kidnapped. Even if my own heart isn’t hammering, he should be trying to keep me calm. Or anything remotely normal. Instead, he extends his voice without an ounce of fear to declare, “Yo, fuckers, she’s trying to hold my hand.”

Something metallic and cold touches my fingertips as he keeps shouting, “Okay, so you’re not going to stop her. But answer this, if someone says they’re not your girl you wouldn’t hold their hand, right?”

The smooth rectangle is pushed into my hand, and I realize what he’s doing. Clever puppy. My fingers can’t wrap around the lighter easily in this angle and he increases his volume when I drop it to hide the clattering.

“Stop for some food, pepperoni pizza. And a milkshake.”

My fingers get purchase on the lighter and he tugs his hands back, so the zip tie is pulled taut. I wince, knowing it’s going to burn while he shouts louder and kicks his feet off the metallic wall, muting the sound of the flame crackling.

“What? You don’t like pizza, okay, burgers then?”

He moves his hands, wanting to be freed first as I guide the edge closer to me. He doesn’t get to play savior and hurt himself. I’m more than capable of doing it for him. The thought lasts less than thirty seconds when my wrists burn, and I pull my hands to stretch the plastic unable to take the heat any longer. The melted plastic is worse, and I have to bite down on my cheek to stop from screaming as it drips against my inner wrists. It stretches out enough to allow me to pull my hands out of the zip ties and I quickly cap the lighter. With both hands free I can move to look around and I don’t remove the fabric off my face in case they can see us.

I peer out from the gap at the bottom of the hood and see we’re encased in metal. There’s no view of the driver as they take a turn too sharply and Vitali grabs my hands, keeping me in place. There are no blinking lights and we’re separated from the door with large mesh. It’s like a riot van with the seats removed and a loop on the floor. I don’t give a fuck if they shoot me and rip the covering off my face. Vitali screams profanities as I carefully melt the edge of the zip tie the furthest point away from his skin then remove the hood from his face once he’s managed to stretch it enough. I expect a dopey smile, but hard eyes burn into me with a reprimand before he says words I don’t think he’s ever thought of.

“Okay, you’re not a talkative bunch, I’ll shut the fuck up.”

I nearly laugh out loud until he fixes on me fully and pulls me to sit in the corner away from the door.He sits in front of me, protectively, and pushes his body into mine so hard that it squashes my organs. His voice is low and stilted as he decides this is the best time to get his point across.

“You never fucking listen to me.”

I press against his back, pushing up so I can breathe, and he turns to face me as he sits up on his knees. My eyes automatically dip to his injured leg, but he grabs my jaw and we both freeze at the mumbling coming from the front cab. The words are indistinguishable, and there’s nothing familiar that I can pick up to highlight who they are.

The van rolls to a stop and he doesn’t get to spew his shit as smoke swirls around the low lights lining the top of the wall. Fear overtakes me and he slams his lips to mine, not breathing me in or kissing me. He’s trying to stop us inhaling whatever the fuck it is but panic has me breathing harder. His fingers pinch my nose closed and he shakes his head when I try to move back. I can’t do whatever bullshit technique he’s crafted, and the lack of air robs me of my senses.

My arms fall limp at my sides, but he holds me tightly. It’s too tight and the edges of my vision turn black as the smoke fills the confined space. There’s no scent to determine what it is, and the booted footsteps travel around us after a door slams.

Then it all stops, and I droop against him.

THIRTY

Vitali

My shirt sticks to my back with the sweat coating my body and I can’t breathe. There’s something covering my face but my hands tremble as searing pain shoots up from knee, through my thigh, and incapacitates me. My breathing is harsher, battling the obstruction, but it only pulls the material closer to my mouth.

It takes me a few minutes to get my bearings enough to realize I’m laid on my side. The concrete floor beneath my fingers brings back the sound of the drill, the whirring and my bone splintering as it pushed through my skin. How my skin burnt against the metal heating up and it caught in the grooves of the drill bit.

My lack of movement works in my favor and there’s no sound to disturb the distant voices.

“You know the rules,” one hisses. Male. His voice is deep, raspy, and I can recognize anger.

“He doesn’t have eyes everywhere,” the other says. His voice dips like he’s holding his breath, and he doesn’t believe his own bullshit.

Their heavy footsteps vibrate through the floor I’m lying on and the lack of my sight fucks with my sense of smell. Piss, shit, and vomit with a heavy stench of rotting flesh like some twisted cunt has made a cologne out of the worst possible smells.

Little pricks of light come through the material over my face where the fibers have thinned, it’s like a modified pillowcase and fits snugly against my neck. The tremor hasn’t left my hands and I pinch my eyes shut to get the sound of the fucking drill to leave. A scream is building inside of me, but I can’t allow it to escape. It’s a weakness.

I’ve gone too long without the pills and all the pain is flooding back in with a vengeance as the pair walk closer. Their heavy boots slam against the concrete and my feverish body turns to ice as one says, “We’ll get one free, the other when she’s conscious will have to be recorded.”

She.

Stasi.

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