Smoke and Mirrors

50

Cynthia was lying on the carpeted floor of A closet. Thanks to a noose around her neck that was tied behind her back to her feet, she would strangle if she moved. Straightening out was impossible, and even if she could, the pain in her stomach made her want to double up. Her pants were cold and damp from urine, and she needed a shot badly. She had no idea how long she could go without one. Nobody had ever told her that.

The man had been gone a very long time. Hours earlier, he’d given her an injection of only half the amount of insulin the needle held. She had begged for more, but the cruel asshole had told her that he couldn’t waste the little insulin she had in case “it” took longer than he thought it would, saying calmly, “Trust me, I won’t let you die. I need you alive.”

Cynthia sobbed quietly, trying to calm herself. She was sure that her mother would have people looking for her by now, and she prayed they would somehow be able to find her. One thing was certain: she was going to make sure Jack Beals paid dearly for this.

She desperately needed to pee again, so she let it go in the quiet darkness.