I used to cry in the beginning. I cried so much I didn't think it was humanly possible. But I learned quickly that crying doesn't change anything.
It doesn't bring Adrian back. It doesn't rewind time to the moment before they took me, and it doesn't undo the eighteen months I've spent in this nightmare.
So I stopped.
I don't cry anymore.
I just wait until... there it is.
Now I can begin my day.
I stand and my legs feel like they belong to someone else, but they carry me across the room. I reach for the handle, my fingers brushing the cold brass.
And then I stop.
I do my final test. I close my eyes, for just a moment, and try to remember what it felt like to be happy.
To laugh.
But the memory won't come, and that's how I truly know the pill has dug into me.
So I open the door and step into the hallway, leaving the empty dining room behind.
And along with it, my thoughts. Now, I can operate on autopilot. I won't have to think.
I won't have to remember. I won't have to feel.
And for now, that's enough.
5
ADRIAN
The door splinters off its hinges with a crack that echoes through the hallway. Wood fragments scatter across the ground as my men pour through the opening, weapons raised, boots heavy against the floor.
I'm right behind them, my Glock already drawn, ready.
Loud music fills our ears as we make our way down the hallway that smells of perfume and weed.
There's cheap-looking artwork lining the halls and poorly done tile lining the ground.
One of my men moves ahead, hand raised in a fist. He signals left, then right, and we keep advancing.
Victor walks beside me, adjusting his tie. He doesn't have his weapon drawn. He never does. He doesn't need to. That's what I'm here for.
His phone buzzes in his pocket, but he ignores it. His eyes scan the corridor with the same calculating precision he uses when he's sitting across from a prime minister or blackmailing a judge.
Another closed door ahead. The bass from the terrible fucking music vibrates through the wood.
I walk toward it. I don't slow down. I raise my boot and kick it open, the lock bursting apart as the door slams inward.
The smell hits me first. Sweat and sex. A man is naked on the couch, a woman between him on her knees, her head bobbing up and down.
The man opens his eyes, sees us, and yells. The woman stops, looks at us, and screams.
One of my men walks over to the stereo and starts kicking it, but it doesn't shut off. I aim my gun at the speakers and fire three times.
Finally, silence.