Page 124 of Undertow

Heart infected

Lungs ingesting toxic air

Beat and breathe

Beat and breathe

I drop the pen and scrub at my face. The hideous words scream back at me in blotted ink, but they don’t hurt as much when they’re on the page.

My chest is lighter.

My hands are no longer shaking.

The terror I felt just a moment ago has faded into a dull throb in my chest. Temporary, like the cut on my hand. It hurt so much when the knife first slid over my palm during last week’s instruction, but now it’s little more than a nuisance.

I pick up the pen again.

Fear is a scratch not a scar.

Air rushes into my lungs freely for the first time in hours as I trace the comforting words.

My words.

Words that will never be free outside of these pages, but maybe that will be enough.

Maybe I finally found a place to safely store my soul.

24

FRACTURED HEARTBEATS

I glance up at the whine of the heavy steel door.

Light streams into the dark room, and I squint at the silhouette blocking the entrance.

“Get up.” Merrick’s growl is unmistakable.

With my hands anchored behind my back, I use the concrete wall to push myself to my feet. My body burns in agony from yesterday’s trauma, but everything in my heart and soul is already dead.

It’s been hours since the meeting with my parents. Plenty of time for McArthur to deliver his sentence in the form of a theatrical speech that said everything but meant nothing.

I didn’t utter a word, much to his disappointment. I don’t plan to respond now, either.

Merrick grips my arm to shove me forward. I feel the pressure of a gun in my back.

Ben and another man who’d been guarding the door look away as we pass, careful to avoid eye contact with me. They know what’s happening. They know this could be them one day if they screw up badly enough.

My pulse races as Merrick guides me to the service elevator and nudges me inside.

His expression is solemn and unreadable. Mine is focused and resigned. All I can do now is pray he keeps his promise to kill me on land.

“Turn around,” he says when we stop beside a golf cart after exiting the elevator.

I obey, and he releases one of the cuffs to secure my hands in front of me instead.

“Get in.” He waves his gun toward the cart. “You’re driving.”

I brace against a cold burst of fear as I climb into the driver’s seat. Merrick takes the spot behind me, and I don’t have to see or feel the gun to know it’s there.