Toxic

by Nicole Blanchard

  “Drop the weapon and get out of the car unless you want a bullet between those lovely eyes,” he orders.

  I release the gun, letting it fall to the seat, and he snatches it away. My hand goes to my stomach, not because I’m feeling queasy, though there’s certainly some of that, but to protect the life growing there.

  The life Gracin and I made and that I’d die to protect.

  Two of the men in suits yank me from the car, completely disregarding the body on the ground. Blood soaks my shoes, and I know there won’t be any amount of cleaning that will get the stain out. The two guys half carry, half drag me to the warehouse because there’s no way in hell I want to go wherever they’re taking me.

  My labored thoughts cycle around how to escape and what horrible things they have planned for me.

  Inside the warehouse, one lone naked bulb swings from a wire and two chairs are situated by a table. There’s a long rope dangling from the ceiling, and the men on either side of me bring me to it so they can bind my hands above my head. One splits off and pulls the rope taunt, forcing me to stand on the tips of my toes to avoid dangling.

  “Who are you?” I ask them. The words are thick with fear. “Did Gracin send you?”

  One of the men looks up from his murmured conversation with the other guy in a suit. He’s got the kind of face that induces nightmares, and I know that I’ll never forget it. He’s dressed in a suit like the others, and just by the close fit and expensive fabric, I can tell it’s tailored, maybe even specially designed for him. His gray-and-white hair is immaculately styled, combed back away from the encroaching baldness. Thick gold rings with sparkling diamonds decorate his fingers. He would look average if it weren’t for the dead, blankness in his eyes.

  It’s the sort of gaze that, when it lands on you, makes your insides quake with fear. And mine do as soon as he turns his attention to me the second I say the magic word: Gracin.

  He holds up a hand to his associate and sidles over to me, looking like he should belong in a boardroom instead of a back-alley place like this. My guess would be he’s the one in charge.

  “So, you do know Gracin,” he says after a moment, “Gracin Kingsley. King? Have you spoken to him since you helped him escape?”

  My gut tells me if I answer that question, I won’t be doing myself any favors, so I keep quiet.

  He sucks his teeth, and his cheek tics. “Very well,” he murmurs. “Take care of her, Danny.” He directs this to a new arrival, who is out of breath as he shoves through the door.

  My own catches in my throat as I recognize eyebrows from the diner and my apartment.

  “Of course, Sal,” Danny says with an angry look in my direction. I want to tell him not to be pissed at me. I wasn’t the one who told him to try to kidnap me, so it wasn’t my fault he got maced, but that probably won’t work in my favor.

  Sal leaves with two of the others, leaving Danny and one other man in the room with me. I try to breathe slowly and deeply to keep calm even though everything inside me wants to panic. Little muscle tremors sneak out, but I otherwise manage to stay in control. Show no fear.

  What worries me the most though—more than Sal’s dead eyes and more than the potential pain I’m about to be dealt—is that I don’t know why. Why me? Who exactly is Gracin, and what the fuck have I gotten myself into?

  I knew it was bad, but these guys . . . they’re one level up from completely fucking terrifying.

  How did he know these men? How did they know I knew him before five minutes ago? What do they want with him? With me?

  As Danny and the other man, who he calls Andrew, circle me, I consider all the things I truly did not know about Gracin. And I curse him for everything he’s done to get me into this situation. I swear that if I ever see him again, one of us won’t make it out of the confrontation alive.

  I expect them to start in on the questioning, but they surprise me by sitting at the table for a smoke and a tug from a bottle of dark liquor. They're trying to kill me with anticipation.

  And it’s working.

  It wouldn’t be so bad if my shoulders weren’t already burning with discomfort at the unnatural position. I glance up and find my hands are already discolored. I try to wiggle my fingers, but they barely move. My wrists are burning. My legs ache and quiver as they try to keep balanced.

  They don’t touch, talk to, or even acknowledge me at all throughout the first night. I try crying, begging, pleading, screaming, but they may as well have put me on mute for all the good it does. I thought I’d been working past the abuse from Vic, but the moment they tied me up, the same fears and terror I experienced at his hands come flooding back. Each time I try to doze, my legs buckle, my arms scream in pain, and I jerk awake with a shriek, expecting blows to come from all sides.

  By morning, tears are falling down my cheeks unchecked because I’m exhausted, frustrated, and numb with pain. I can’t feel my arms anymore, and I’ve long since given up trying to stay upright. Instead, I just dangle, circulation be damned. It doesn’t even hurt anymore because I can’t feel anything at all.

  Light is streaming through the windows that line the top of the walls when they acknowledge me for the first time. Danny’s been glaring at me when he thinks I’m not looking, but I can’t find it in me to give a damn about his bruised ego.

  Danny gets to his feet, his face impassive if a little tired based on the smudges beneath his eyes. If I could move, if my muscles weren’t frozen with exhaustion, I’d pull away from him.

  I expect him to hit me, to hurt me, to torture me, but these men are much, much too sadistic to make it that easy. Instead, Danny releases the rope from the pulley and allows me to rest flat on my feet and my arms to flop down, limp and useless. I’d think there was something wrong with them if they didn’t hurt so damn much once feeling begins to return.

  He doesn’t say a word, just watches as I shift from foot to foot, trying to improve circulation in my arms and legs. When I do, I want to cry out in pain. The pain is far worse than I thought it would be. Like thousands of bullet ants are sinking their pinchers into my flesh. I bite my cheek to contain the sound, and I do it so hard I draw blood. The taste makes me so sick to my stomach that I puke up bile and blood at my feet.

  Danny shows emotion for the first time and takes a step back in barely masked disgust. It almost makes me want to smile. If I weren’t gagging, I probably would have. I haven’t had morning sickness since I found out I was pregnant, but what a time for it to show up.

  Momma thinks you have a sense of humor, I tell the baby. I know it’s crazy, but spending the past however many hours strung up, unable to sleep and surviving on adrenaline, has me twisted up in all kinds of ways. Talking to the baby, small though it is, gives me a certain sense of comfort.

  It was two weeks ago, just when I thought I was going to be okay with everything that had happened. I’d been so worried about getting an apartment and a job and keeping out of the police’s sights that I didn’t realize I’d skipped a period.

  At first, I thought it was stress. I’d skipped a couple while I was married to Vic, so that wasn’t abnormal. But my body felt different. My boobs more sensitive, my emotions more volatile, my energy nonexistent.

  And though it scared me right to my core . . . I just knew.

  I also knew the baby was Gracin’s. Vic and I hadn’t had sex since before Gracin arrived, so there wasn’t a chance in hell that I was carrying his child. I was most grateful for that. If I were forced to chose between Vic and a convicted criminal, I would pick the criminal every time.

  I spared some of my cash to take a blood test at the health care center, and they confirmed my suspicions. I was without a doubt pregnant. They set me up with an appointment with an OB and a bottle of prenatal vitamins and then sent me on my merry way.

  At first, I didn’t know what to do. What to think. Melinda started asking if I was allergic to the sun because I was acting so weird. It took me a while to realize it didn’t have to be a b
ad thing. Maybe, this was what was meant to happen. A baby, this baby, was the first good, positive thing to happen to me in a very long time, and I vowed I wouldn’t let what happened to me, happen to this child.

  I’ll endure whatever they do to me to see that we both make it out of this hellhole alive.

  When the pain is gone, and I can move my limbs freely, Danny strings me right back up. Only this time, he and Andrew pull the rope just a little bit tighter. My arms go numb much more quickly the second time around, and I’m only semi-conscious from lack of food and water. Not to mention, lack of sleep. Each sway of my body shoots me back to consciousness, and now there’s nausea and hunger pains on top of everything else.

  This goes on for an endless amount of time. I can only tell it passes because of the light shining through the windows. I lose count of how many times they unhook me, allow the feeling back, and then string me right back up. Danny and the other guy are relieved from watch duty when another pair of men I don’t know shows up. Hours and hours later, Danny and his friend come back, looking refreshed and well fed.

  I can barely keep my eyes open but manage to bare my teeth at them, which only causes them to laugh.

  If I weren’t strung up like an animal for slaughter, I would have put bullets in every single one of them. Gracin included for getting me into this shit.

  The next night, or at least I think it is, they bring out a jug of water. My mouth can’t work up the saliva at the sight, but something primal inside me aches at the sight of it.

  As if he knows what I’m thinking, Danny plops the water on the table in front of me and pours himself a glass. The sound only reminds me of the intense pressure building in my bladder. I look away and up at my discolored hands, hoping it’ll take my mind off my body, but it doesn’t.

  I fight the need to pee, knowing it’s what they want, the degradation and humiliation, but in the end, nature wins out. The relief is overwhelming, but at the same time relieving myself after so long shoots knife-like edges of pain throughout my middle. The pungent smell of urine wafts up around me, and warmth soaks my jeans, leaving them sticky against my legs.

  That’s when they give me sips of tepid water from the jug. I’m so thirsty that I don’t even care. They only allow little sips, but it’s enough to wet my dry lips.

  I sway on the rope trying to reach for the cup as they pull it away, and on the return swing, I spin around and meet a fist that connects right with my stomach.

  The cramps are immediate and brutal.

  “No,” I say, but it’s more of a croak. I don’t know if I’m talking to the men around me or the ghost of Vic. As black comes into my vision, reality splits, and I feel like I’m back underneath his fists, struggling to stay alive.

  It doesn’t matter. They don’t listen. Another blow, this time to the face, no doubt to shut me up. Danny's fist connects just under my eye, and I snap around on the rope. My arms scream in protest, and my head feels like I have the worst hangover on the planet within seconds. Combined with the breathlessness leftover from the blow to the stomach, I hurt so bad my brain doesn’t know which part of me to focus on.

  Someone barks an order, but I can’t hear it over the ringing in my ears. There’s a flurry of activity, and then someone grabs my hips from behind.

  For one brief, terrifying second, I think they’re going to rape me, and I struggle back to consciousness, fighting them as much as I can while I’m bound and helpless. Then the one in front of me, Danny maybe, slaps me across the other cheek, and I realize the dick holding my hips is only doing so to steady me, so I don’t move so much.

  My left eye is already partially swollen shut, and my other is watering from the smack, but even with my blurry vision, I can see the horror movie quality table of nightmares they’ve arranged at some point.

  Knives. Power tools. More rope. Guns. I shudder and throw up the water I managed to choke down. Danny scowls and backhands me again. This time I sway into the body of the man behind me, which only makes me gag again. The sensation of another man’s hands on me is physically revolting.

  When I can see again, it’s to find Danny with a small torch in his hand. Behind him, an extension cord trails toward the wall. The torch hisses to life and heat flares across the sensitive skin causing me to wince.

  “Tell us what you know about Gracin Kingsley,” Danny says as he casually waves the torch in front of my face.

  I don’t owe Gracin any loyalty, and I sure as hell would tell them whatever they want if it meant I’d get out of here alive, but there are two things wrong with this scenario.

  One, I have no idea where the hell he is.

  Two, I know the moment I give these men what they want, I’m dead.

  So, I say nothing.

  At my lack of a response, the torch flares, and the hands on my hips tighten to the point of pain. I’m shaking all over, but there’s no controlling that at this point. Danny squats at my side, takes my leg in his arm, and locks it tight. If I had the strength to fight him, I still wouldn’t have been able to break his vice-like hold.

  The torch isn’t huge, but the flame shooting out from the tip is very, very real and, I have no doubt, effective. But in the moment, I don’t even care, because the rippling and spasming in my womb coupled with the fresh dampness between my legs can only mean one thing. And if it’s what I think it is, I don’t care how much they torture me. I’ll survive it if only to rip their fucking throats out with my bare hands.

  Danny ignores the urine soaking my jeans as he has one of the other men slice them up so they’re little more than rags hanging off my legs from the knees down. He rips them off and tosses them away before bringing the flame closer to my skin. I hear the sizzle of my flesh and smell cooking meat before I feel the pain of the burn. I throw my head back and scream up to the rafters. Before long, I lose my voice and can only grunt out strangled cries until he removes the flame.

  When I refocus on him, the flame is dark, and his face is hard and blank. Death incarnate. “Where is he?” he asks.

  I don’t answer him. Past caring, I zone out, my tired body resting against the one behind me. There’s another sizzle, and then I convulse, wanting to move away from the pain, but unable to because of the hands holding me still. He pulls the torch away, and my body automatically sags forward. For the first time, I’m grateful for the bindings. I wouldn’t be able to stay upright if it weren’t for them.

  This time Danny barely pauses and doesn’t repeat the question. The flame moves up my leg, getting closer to the sensitive flesh of my thighs. His hands slip on my wet skin, but he either doesn’t notice or doesn’t care, and I forget to mention that it’s blood and not urine because he touches the flame to flesh again. This time, I do pass out.

  When I come to, the sun is high in the sky, and I feel like I’m a column of burning ice. Freezing and on fire at the same time. I gag against the smell surrounding me—my cooked flesh—and manage to vomit away from myself instead of down my chest. There’s nothing but bile to throw up anyway, and soon, I’m back to dangling.

  My stomach cramps, and a fresh wave of blood coats my inner thighs. I moan, and tears course down my cheeks. I think I pass out again because the next thing I know, a barrage of water fills my nose and mouth, startling me awake. They keep it in my face full blast until I’m breathing it. Then they turn it off, and I cough and hack up water at their feet.

  I hear one of them cursing and then the water hits me in the chest as they hose me down like a dog. It burns like liquid fire when it hits the burned flesh of my legs. I want to pull away from it, to cry, or to scream at them to stop, but I can’t. I’m completely powerless.

  “The fuck’s she bleeding from?” one of them murmurs. “You didn’t hit her that hard.”

  I can feel their eyes on me, but I can’t open mine to see. Besides, I already know what they’re staring at. What conclusions they’re drawing. Let them see what they’ve done. If they have hearts enough to care, I hope it eats them alive unt
il I can cut them out.

  The hose comes back, this time to give me an impromptu shower. I want to tell them it’s pointless because it’ll just keep coming. They’re still grumbling and trying to wash away the blood when orders are barked, and the hands are back on my hips. Danny’s shadowy form and the flickering light of the torch are all I can see.

  I use my last burst of energy to kick the torch out of his hand, and my foot glances off his shin as I follow through, and he grunts in pain. The metallic clatter of the torch hitting the concrete floor echoes throughout the warehouse. Danny waddles to it and snatches it from the ground. There’s a flare of heat and then the screaming pain returns, this time on the opposite leg.

  “Where is he?” he asks.

  “Fuck you,” I whisper.

  This time he leaves the flame against my skin a lot longer. So long that I don’t feel the pain anymore, which sounds good, but I know it can’t be. Injuries without pain equal death.

  What does it matter? I’m dead anyway, right?

  He removes the flame, only to bring it back to a new spot, causing fresh pain. Eventually, I have to go to another place in my brain. One where there is no pain. Where there is no death. Where the baby I hadn’t planned for isn’t leaving me before I ever got to properly love it as it deserved. The place I cultivated at the hands of a husband who didn’t know the meaning of the word mercy.

  I’m ripped back to reality when they bring back the hose to clean me off again. The man behind me is gone, and I can’t hold my head up anymore or stand on my legs, so I’m dangling forward, my eyes on the concrete beneath me. Bloody water travels in rivulets across the ground and to a nearby drain.

  Agony doesn’t describe what I feel when I realize that’s the little life I’d already thought of as mine. Sobs burst from me then. Deep, wracking painful things, and I feel like a part of me has been ripped right from my heart, like I’m changed right down to my DNA. I know if I make it out of this, I’ll never, ever be the same.