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We’re coming, Lani. Hang in there.
LANI
“Come on,Lawson. Just eat it. Don’t be a chicken.”
“Hard pass, Hunt. That looks disgusting.”
I throw my head back and laugh. “It’s not disgusting. It’s delicious.” I take a bite just to prove it. The flavor combination dances on my tongue, so I take another and grin at him.
“No,” he insists. “It’s pineapple. On pizza. Two things that absolutely do not go together.”
I laugh again, completely unable to control myself as I look at his horrified expression. “It’s called a Hawaiian pizza. Come on, you know this is a thing. It wouldn’t be a thing if it was disgusting.”
“A thing for people with no taste buds,” he insists, pushing the plate away again. “Besides, anchovies are disgusting too, and those are still a thing.”
“Anchoviesaredisgusting. This is not.” I slide it back in front of him. “Come on. Please? Just try it. If you don’t like it, I’ll eat all the Hawaiian, and you can have all of the pepperoni.”
He arches a brow. “All of it?”
“All of it,” I reply. It’s pizza and movie night for us. A fantastic monthly tradition where my dad orders us pizza and we lie on the floor, binge-eating and watching old movies until Gibson heads home before curfew.
It’s been going on since we were eight and our moms started going to bingo night together. Dad doesn’t have to cook. My brothers typically all have plans. And Gibson and I get to spend time together. Just the two of us. With my dad hovering in his office, pretending not to be checking in on us every ten minutes.
I smile and glance toward his open door.
“Why do I feel like you’re tricking me into eating the most disgusting thing on the planet?” Gibson asks.
“It’s not that bad,” I insist again, shifting my attention back to him. “Come on, you trust me, don’t you?”
“I thought I did,” he replies with a grin. “Now I’m beginning to question my sanity.”
* * *
I wakeup from the dream slowly. The memory lingers in my mind, and for a moment, I’m back in my living room. Back with Gibson. Back eating far too much pizza and watching some cheesy movie while I tried to pretend I wasn’t inching closer to him on the couch. Things were simple then. They were lovely.
But as I come fully awake, I realize that I’m still trapped in this dark room, living a nightmare as it plays out during my waking hours.
Still unable to see anything. My stomach burns with hunger, and I’m seriously regretting not eating that offered sandwich.
I can’t say that I’d make the same choice again, even if the food is poisoned. Which, while I do believe is unlikely given how badly they want to keep me alive, was something that crossed my mind.
I groan, tugging at the restraints. My entire body is still slick with sweat from the lack of airflow in this room, and drawing a full, deep breath is a struggle.
Outside, a floorboard creaks seconds before the door opens. How does this person always know when I’m awake? Are they living out there? Enjoying their life when I’m trapped mere feet away? Then I recall the tattered couch and boarded-up windows and seriously doubt it.
Light assaults my eyes, and I have to blink slowly to clear the spots from my vision as the masked assailant comes in, a bowl of what looks like oatmeal in their hands. My stomach churns. Of all the food?—
“Eat,” they order, voice still distorted. When I don’t immediately open my mouth for the bite, they step forward and shove the spoon against my lips. The oatmeal burns my skin as they force the spoon into my mouth. Flavorless and thick, it slips down the back of my throat.
I choke, spitting some of it up. They don’t bother giving me a moment to catch my breath before jamming another bite into my open mouth. I try to breathe but choke as I inhale a bit of the food.
My throat burns as I try to catch my breath.
Bite after bite, I’m force-fed until I literally cannot take anymore. I turn my head and bite down on my own lips just to keep my mouth closed.No more. Please, no more.
They seem to get the message and leave the room with the bowl, though the door stays open. I try to crane my neck to see more of what’s on the other side, but I can’t see anything but old wood and the tattered couch.
Where am I?