Page 10 of Summer's Cage
Now, I’ll choose to die before I ask that sick fuck for any sort of help.
The only reason I haven’t given in to the temptation of death yet is because I ache to watch him burn. I can’t witness that spectacle if I’m dead. Every time he brings me food, every time he lets me shower, every time he toodles away in the laundry room and around the corner into what I assume is a type of root cellar, my eyes flay him alive and my soul consumes his.
He doesn’t attempt to speak to me, hardly holds my gaze anymore. It’s on the tip of my tongue to ask why the big change, to twist the knife in his heart until a lethal amount of blood pours from between his silent lips.
Not totally silent, my fucked up brain reminds me.Summer. It still has the capacity to tear me apart limb from limb when I recall the sound of my name on his tongue, like he was worshipping the god of the universe despite having no voice to do so. It haunts my nightmares, as does the way his fingers moved deep within me. More than once since the incident, I’ve awoken breathless and covered in sweat, my legs pressed tightly together, my body on the verge of climax.
I stopped crying myself to sleep after those dreams a few weeks ago.
The strangest part to me currently is how intact my mind seems. I’m sort of just…here. Stuck in a nightmare but unable to do a damn thing about it. I’m not sure why I feel so complacent, so patient to wait this out with the hopes he’ll make a mistake soon. If I dig a little deeper into my soul, I think I know why, but it’s hard to admit the truth to yourself sometimes.
I think the life I built before this was something I hated. I felt far more trapped being an influencer than I ever have here.
Here, I have one pair of obsessive eyes watching me.
Out there, I havemillions.
The constant fear of not being enough, of saying the wrong thing, of not using the correct product or not expressing the right amount of gratitude becomes paralyzing after a while. The worst part is knowing I chose to do this to myself, but would I really take it back if I could?
The door at the top of the stairs is yanked open roughly as he stomps angrily down the steps, ripping me from my thoughts as my muscles tense instinctively.
He hits the landing and rounds the stairs without even glancing at me, wearing nothing but dirt-covered jeans, boots, and a new mask—this one the same as his trademark skeleton one, only it’s the glow in the dark kind. I haven’t seen the clown again, thank fuck.
He’s become tanned in the months I’ve been here, his skin sun-kissed and perfect. Even with my impending and dreaded period, my body reacts to the sight of him in ways I know I can’t control; my heartbeat picks up, my stomach flutters, and my pussy clenches before aching in desperation at being empty. With the physical reaction always comes the mental; shame like an icy bucket of water dousing me, hatred hotter than the scorching sun toward myself, and a type of sorrow I never knew existed.
Despite me not wanting him, I wrestle with the fact that part of medidand still does. He makes me feel things I didn’t know a human was capable of feeling. A desire that burns constantly in my core has been coaxed to life by his long, deft fingers, and a sick, twisted part of me wishes with every fiber of my being that he’d pin me down and do it again. The thought makes me woozy with need. I’ve wondered more than I care to admit what his cock would feel like. Painful, I’m sure, because something tells me he’d stuff me until I screamed and begged for mercy, and he’d still feed me the rest until our hip bones kissed.
My tongue sticks to the roof of my mouth, my eyes slipping out of focus as I imagine that scenario with a longing desperation that is so, so fucking wrong.
Jumping out of my dark reverie as metal hitting metal rips me from those sickening yet pleasurable thoughts, I sit up slightly and glance toward the laundry room door. All that’s visible to me are bright white appliances with a few random dings in the metal, and a basin for the water to drain into. Light spills from another doorway I cannot see, but I imagine Kage in there, scouring a toolbox as sweat collects on his body and trickles down in between the ridges of his muscles.
Before my mind scampers too far down the sinful rabbit hole, he trudges out, biceps taut, strong, veined hand flexing near his thigh. In his other, he grips a massive wrench. He seems…annoyed. As though he’s having to fix something. The thought makes me smirk, and I sit up, scooting into my corner to await my impending entertainment and distraction from my cramps. It doesn’t take long for some banging around upstairs to occur, and shortly after, a bout of thick silence before the wrench sounds as though it’s been thrownthrougha wall.
I can’t help but snort.
Back down the stairs he comes, both hands empty this time, and both opening and closing in heightened annoyance. This time, however, his eyes cut to mine quickly before darting away. He disappears into the unknown room again, wrestling around with some more tools, before exiting and holding my gaze imperiously the entire amount of time it takes him to reach the steps.
Stupid, sickening butterflies rave within me, until another cramp causes me to drop my forehead to my knees and breathe steadily through the pain. I’m fucked. He’ll know something’s up when all the toilet paper disappears overnight, or when he forces me to shower. He’s re-rigged my cuffs so I have free access to the toilet and sink all day (how fucking generous), but he still removes them every time I shower. He hasn’t touched me since, just stands with his arms crossed and eyes on my feet or above my head.
He’s as hard as a steel rod every time, though.
Right as I’m accepting the fact that I’ll have to just…bleed everywhere and suffer without some sort of pain med, a loud bang sounds above me, followed by another, and another, and another. Silence and dust motes created from the disturbance settle as my heart races. A few moments later, the door swings open. A defeated Kage comes down, a pen and a thick, five-subject notebook in his hand.
He stops at the edge of the mattress and crouches, not looking at me as he flips open the black, blank notebook.It’s new. Something about that pricks at my heart in ways it shouldn’t.
Setting the notebook on his thigh, he writes, pressing down hard with the pen. It looks so tiny in his fist, like a toothpick. My eyes home in on his fingers, and my cunt flutters, my clit aching. It’s impossible not to think of how he made me feel when I’m forced to stare at the appendages he used tomakeme feel such a way.
I’m spared from further self-loathing as he flips the notebook around and I read his words. His handwriting is blocky, neat and precise, yet somehow rough—just like him.
My shower is broken.
A fireworks show of fury pops through me, the swing in emotions far more blunt with my shift in hormones. Holding out my hands, he’s confused for a moment before he gives over the pen and notebook.
Quickly, I scrawl my response, the weight of the pen in my hand a thing I didn’t realize I had been missing until now.
That sucks.
I carelessly toss the notebook back to him, but the asshole catches it deftly, his brow quirking in defiance before he reads my response. The moment he does, his shoulders tense, and his cheeks heat, but I can’t tell if he thinks it’s funny…or he’s furious.
