Page 11 of Riot's Thorn
When I’ve run out of things to do, I stand with my hand on the knob but can’t seem to turn it. I don’t want to face him again. In his eyes, I’m nothing but a weak nuisance. And maybe until now, I have been. But that’s not who I am in my real life. I graduated high school with my associate’s degree, and I’m graduating college this year. I’m confident and capable.
I guess none of that matters when you’re kidnapped with no idea where you are or who took you. At this moment, I’m nothing but a victim, and I need to decide if I’m brave enough to change that. There has to be a way out of here. Even if it takessome time, I know I can find it. I just have to keep a clear head and earn his trust. Isn’t that what the true crime podcasts say?
Finally turning the doorknob, I take a deep breath and step into the hall. The carpet under my bare feet is teal and plush where it meets the wall, but the heavy traffic area in the center is flat and worn, the plastic backing coming up in some places. My gaze catches on the baseboards.
What the hell?
That’s weird.
Instead of the usual wood baseboards, these are about six-inch-tall metal. What’s the purpose of that? Do I even want to know?
The hallway is dim, not only because of the dark wooden paneling on the walls but also because the brass sconces on the wall aren’t lit, making it difficult to decide which way to go. This place is creepy, something I’ve only seen in horror movies.
I think I came in from the left, so that’s the direction I go. Straight ahead is a door—a linen closet, maybe? Instead of opening to find out, I go left. The hall opens into the living room, a space I didn’t pay attention to when I was out here before, but I do now.
The only newish things in this place are the leather sofa, chair, and big-screen TV. Otherwise, it hasn’t been touched in longer than I’ve been alive.
The wood paneling continues throughout, as does the teal carpet. Just beyond the sofa is a half-wall separating the kitchen from the living room, which stops me from seeing it fully. From what I can tell, the appliances are just as outdated as everything else, and blue-tiled countertops finish off the blast from the past.
Catching movement in my periphery, I findhimstanding in front of the window, a mug of something hot in his hands. I stand there awkwardly, just inside the room, not knowing what to do now. Grief has taken a backseat to survival, and while Iknow the full weight of this situation will hit me eventually, I need to keep my head on straight if I want to live through this.
“Coffee?” he asks without looking my way. I was silent and unmoving, so that he knew I was here tells me his senses have been honed.
“Um, sure.” I tuck my hair behind my ears and move to the sofa, noting it’s been wiped down and the air smells like bleach.
After a quick trip to the kitchen, he strides over and thrusts a black mug at me. “Here.”
“Th—thank you,” I struggle to say, because this man doesn’t deserve even an ounce of gratitude from me.
He doesn’t acknowledge me, but what did I expect from a man who doesn’t seem to enjoy talking? I stare at the black liquid, wondering if it’s safe. I wouldn’t put it past him to drug me.
“For fuck’s sake,” he mutters, taking the mug from me and lifting it to his lips. His large Adam’s apple bobs as he swallows, proving it’s not poisoned. Handing it back to me, he looks me dead in the eyes. What I see in them will haunt me for the rest of my life. I didn’t think pure evil was a real thing, but it turns out it is because his nearly black globes are something completely unholy. He notices the goosebumps that pop up on my arms and mistakes them for me being cold. “Drink.”
I lift the mug with shaky arms and take a sip of the hot beverage. Normally, I’d add an ungodly amount of cream and sugar, but since that wasn’t offered, I drink it black. It doesn’t matter because I don’t taste a thing. My senses are numb.
He strides to the wall opposite me and slides down to the floor. While I was showering, he must’ve changed because now he’s wearing worn blue jeans and a white T-shirt that pulls tight across the wide span of his chest and biceps. Black tattoos cover every inch of his arms, but I can’t make out the images.
He has large silver rings on three of his fingers—two on the right and one on the left—none of them being his ring fingers. I guess that doesn’t mean he isn’t married or with someone, but there were no feminine products in the bathroom. I know because I looked in every drawer and cupboard. Then again, he could have a husband or boyfriend.
I squeeze my eyes shut. These are not the questions I should be focusing on—the biggest ones being why am I here and what is he going to do with me? Knowing my future will help me time my escape.
When I open my eyes, I gasp and nearly dump the hot coffee on me in an attempt to draw my legs up off the ground. “Holy shit.”
Two large rodents, one gray and one white, scurry over the carpet and head right forhim. Good; maybe they’ll bite him and give him rabies. But they don’t do that. They crawl up his legs and scale his shirt until they reach his chest. He cups his hands under them, and, oh god, his expression softens. It doesn’t look natural. It’s like he really has to force the muscles to relax, but it’s the first time I haven’t seen him look murderous.
I scan the floor, looking for more of the pests. When I don’t see any, I lower my feet but keep my eyes peeled. He whispers words I can’t hear as he strokes each of them. One rolls onto its back, and he scratches its belly as if it’s a dog. Clearly they’re his pets, but why are they not locked in a cage? Does he let them roam around like this all the time?
Reaching into his pocket, he produces something I can’t make out, but I realize it must be food when they take the small nuggets into their little hands and gnaw. It’s sort of cute, I guess, but that doesn’t mean I want them anywhere near me.
Not sure what to do with myself, I slowly sip my coffee and try to ignore what’s going on in front of me. He doesn’t seemto share the awkwardness I’m feeling, completely content with sitting in silence with a stranger in the room.
After what feels like an hour, he sets the two rodents on the floor and stands. They follow him past me, and yes, I pull my legs up again, just in case. Thankfully, they mostly ignore me. The gray one pauses and lifts up on his back legs, sniffing the air, but then he scurries away.
I watch as he opens a slider that might’ve been intended to be a pantry, but this man uses it to house some kind of habitat. It’s made of moss and wood, some of it hollow to make a tunnel while the rest stands on end for climbing, all arranged inside a cage the two rats climb into. After one final pet, he closes them inside.
Suddenly, the metal floorboards make sense. Rats can supposedly chew through almost anything, and if he allows them to roam, he must worry they’ll get inside the walls. There are still places they could climb, like the kitchen counters, if they wanted to get inside the walls that way, but it’s still a deterrent. These rats must mean a lot to him.
Anyone who can so carefully tend to such small creatures must have some good in him, which brings me a small amount of hope. That, and he might’ve been rough with me at times, but he hasn’t hurt me. Surely he would’ve by now if that was his intention, right?
