Three days have already passed since he was taken prisoner by Avina, the mad woman who also happens to be a clean freak. He spent three days trying to stay sane while thinking of a possible way to get out of this place. Deon realized that he'd rather die by the hands of those thugs instead of being a prisoner of Avina. The idea of dying in this clean and neat room by being tortured by Avina is making his head hurt, and also makes his heart pound loudly.
The clack-clack-clack of Avina's sneakers on the gleaming cherry wood disturbed the stillness of the master suite. With his back straight, Deon sat on the edge of the bed and watched her through his hair fringe. As she danced around a rolling silver cart, her enormous "Mafia Queen" graphic tee fluttered and she hummed a pop tune that was at least ten years old. She was in an especially lively mood today.
"You're being awfully broody today, Deon," she chirped, sliding a plate of seared scallops and saffron risotto onto the small table within his reach. The aroma was divine—buttery, rich, and mocking. "It's bad for digestion. If you keep scowling, your face will stay that way, and I'll have to spend a fortune on Botox to keep my favorite toy looking pretty."
She leaned over him, her green-streaked hair brushing his shoulder. With a playful smirk, she picked up a fork and nudged a scallop against his lips. "Open up. I spent three hours on the sauce. If you don't eat it, I might have to get... creative with how I feed you."
Deon shifted, the iron chain on his ankle rattling. He hated how much he wanted the food. He hated even more how her playful pestering felt almost normal—like a twisted version of a girlfriend teasing her partner. He opened his mouth, and the explosion of flavor was almost enough to make him forget he was a prisoner. Almost.
"There he is," she laughed, bopping him on the nose with her finger. "Good boy. You know, I was thinking of painting this room a soft gold. It would bring out the amber in your eyes. What do you think? Gold or cream?"
Deon didn't answer. He chewed slowly, his eyes fixed on the door across the room. While Avina babbled about interior design and the "terrible" quality of modern silk, his mind was a frantic engine of geometry and physics.
Twelve feet, he calculated. The chain gives me twelve feet from the bedpost. The door is exactly thirteen feet away.
If he could just stretch—if he could use the momentum of a lunge—he might be able to hook his fingers around that gold-plated handle.
Avina seemed oblivious to his internal calculations. She spent the next twenty minutes playfully annoying him—tugging at his sleeve, rearranging his hair, and even stealing a bite of his risotto while making a dramatic "mwah" sound. She was a whirlwind of chaotic energy, a stark contrast to the sterile, museum-like perfection of the room.
"I have to go check on the wine cellar," she said suddenly, standing up and dusting off her ripped jeans. "The temperature is a degree off, and I won't have my vintage bottles suffering. Stay put, okay?"
She skipped toward the door, her oversized shirt swaying. Deon held his breath. Usually, he heard the heavy thud of the bolt and the distinct click of the electronic lock.
She swung the door shut.
Silence.
No thud. No click.
Deon's heart jumped into his throat. He sat frozen for ten seconds, then twenty. Had she really forgotten? The "Mafia Queen" who obsessed over every speck of dust had left the primary gate to his prison unsecured. It felt like a miracle. It felt like a trap. But it was the only chance he had.
He stood up, moving with the agonizing slowness of a predator. Every link of the chain that touched the floor felt like a gunshot in the quiet room. He bunched the middle of the chain in his hand, lifting it so it wouldn't drag.
One step. Two. Three.
He reached the ten-foot mark. The chain began to pull taut against the mahogany bedpost. He could feel the tension vibrating up his leg.
He was two feet from the door.
He leaned forward, his arm outstretched, his fingers straining toward the brass handle. He could see the faint gap between the door and the frame. It wasn't fully latched. If he could just touch it, he could swing it open and scream for help, or find a way to break the shackle in the hallway.
He took a deep breath, braced his core, and lunged.
The iron cuff snapped against his bone with a sickening jerk, stopping him inches short. He fell to his knees, his fingertips brushing the cold brass of the handle. With a grunt of pure desperation, he hooked two fingers around the edge of the door and pulled.
The door swung open with a smooth, silent glide.
Deon's eyes widened. He expected to see the long, elegant hallway. He expected to see a path to freedom.
Instead, he saw a pair of scuffed high-top sneakers.
He looked up, his gaze traveling up the faded denim of the ripped jeans, past the oversized shirt, to the face of Avina. She wasn't in the wine cellar. She was standing right there, leaning against the opposite wall of the narrow corridor, her arms crossed over her chest.
She wasn't angry. She was smiling—that wide, electric, terrifyingly patient smile. In her hand, she held a small remote. She clicked a button, and the electronic lock on the doorframe hissed.
"Oops," she whispered, her voice a sing-song lilt that chilled him to the bone. "You almost had it, Deon. You really did."
She stepped forward, placing a hand on the door and gently pushing it back. Deon was forced to crawl backward as the door closed the gap he had fought so hard to create.
"I love this game," she said, kneeling down so they were eye-to-eye in the shrinking sliver of light. "The way your heart was beating... I could hear it through the wood. It sounded like a drum. It sounded like my very first pet toy when he used to try and hide from me in the gardens."
She reached out and patted his cheek, her touch light and maternal. "But remember the rules, Deon. The house is a sanctuary. Outside is the cold, the river, and the Devil. Why would you want to leave a place that's so... clean?"
She let out her devilish smirk before finally standing up and turned her back on him. The door shut with a definitive, bone-chilling thud. The electronic lock engaged with a chirp of finality.
Deon collapsed against the floor, his forehead resting on the cold cherry wood. He had never felt more like a toy, and for the first time, the "delicious" food in his stomach felt like lead. He wasn't waiting for a chance to escape anymore. He was waiting for the madness to swallow him whole.