Page 53 of Firethorne
The room was all white, like a generic hotel room... or an asylum. The bed where I lay was covered in white cotton sheets, clinically crisp and foreign. There was a door opposite the bed,and another door to the right. As I peered around, I noticed a bottle of water on the bedside table. I couldn’t hear anything, so I pushed myself to sit, wincing as my muscles groaned and my bones ached. I was thirsty, but I was wary of drinking anything here. But when I reached for the bottle and saw it wasn’t tampered with, I twisted the cap off and drank like I’d just crawled out of the desert.
I wiped my mouth with the back of my hand and placed the bottle back down. Then, on shaky legs, I stood up, my feet sinking into the plush white carpet as I began to walk hesitantly over to the windows. I pushed the blinds to the side to peer through, but all I saw were fields. No other buildings, no people passing by below that might be able to help me. I was in the middle of nowhere.
I knew this wasn’t Firethorne, but was I still somewhere on the estate?
I had no idea, but not knowing where I was made the undercurrent of panic and the ripple of fear grow inside me like a tsunami.
I checked to see if the window would open, I pushed the frame and banged on the glass, desperation growing with each second that passed, but it wouldn’t open. It was as if I was sealed shut inside this room, a prisoner, and my only way of escape would be through one of the two doors behind me.
I turned to face the room, my prison cell, and I headed for the door opposite the bed.
Pushing it open, I found a simple white bathroom inside, with a toilet, sink, and a basic shower. But no window. Just a vent that was so small I wouldn’t stand a chance at breaking through it or climbing out to safety. I scanned the bathroom, then started scrambling around, looking under the sink, around the toilet, searching frantically to see if I could find anything I could use as a weapon, but there was nothing. Just like anasylum, this place had been secured and locked down. All I needed now was the straitjacket, and right now, I felt so trapped, so constricted, it was like I was already wearing one.
I stepped back into the room and took a deep breath, staring at the final door. Knowing that what lay behind it was going to be my downfall.
Firethorne’s words echoed in my ears.
If she thinks this is bad, she’s not going to last five minutes when we do the handover.
She’s not going to last five minutes...
Not five minutes...
This had to be the handover he’d talked about.
I’d officially arrived in hell.
I swallowed. My body didn’t feel like my own as my ears rang, and I struggled to breathe.
What kind of monster was waiting for me out there?
And how was I going to defeat it?
I could’ve waited for them to come in here, stayed in the room and tried to formulate a plan. Bought myself extra time. But I didn’t. I wanted to know where I was and what was going on. I wanted to face whatever this was head-on. Show them I wasn’t a pushover. I would fight back.
I approached the door with caution, turning the handle like it was a bomb ready to detonate, and I was responsible for diffusing it. And then, I pushed the door open, holding my already ragged breath, trying to listen out for anything over the pounding beat of my fearful heart.
I had to stay alert and ready.
There was a small, narrow corridor outside the room with white walls and carpet, just like in the bedroom. I crept down the corridor, each step harder to take than the last. Like a walk to the gallows, I knew I had to get there, but I wanted to prolong the inevitable. My stay of execution.
I stopped when I came to an open-plan living area.
Not what I’d expected at all.
There was a wide-screen TV on the wall, floor-to-ceiling windows that ran along one side of the room, looking out over the rolling fields below. The sun shone brightly through the windows, casting a beautiful glow on the room, like it was tricking me into thinking this was a safe space, not a torture chamber. A picture-perfect heaven to mask the depravity of hell that lurked beneath.
In one corner was a small dining table and chairs, with four placemats on it, ready for a meal. Another trick to fool me into thinking this was a home for civilised people.
A family.
A haven.
But it wasn’t.
And the fear I was fighting began to choke me in its vice-like grip when I glanced down at the square set of sofas in the middle of the room... sofas with one person sitting on them. Feet up on the coffee table that sat in the middle, his back to me as he sat in silence, gazing out of the window.
“You were out for a lot longer than I expected,” he said, taking his feet off the table and pushing himself slowly to stand.
