Page 9 of The Wolf

Poppy

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I tossed and turned on the cot. Vega brought me a scratchy wool blanket and a bottle of water. He didn't say a word. He simply placed the items on the stool and left. I tried to ask him more questions, but Vega just flashed me a stern glare before bolting the door shut.

I kept trying the door to see if it was still locked.

I was obsessed with it. As if someone might secretly unlock it to set me free.

Every so often, I would hear someone walk by.

I'd jump from the cot and start banging on the door.

I'd pound so hard there was no way whoever it was didn't hear me.

But they never made a sound. They never stopped. They just kept going.

The room kept feeling like it was getting smaller and smaller. I paced around the perimeter, walking from corner to corner, from wall to wall, from door to window. The walls were slowly closing in on me, and I was suffocating.

There was a sensation that something heavy was sitting on my chest. My head was dizzy, and my lungs burned. My hands shook, trembling with fear and uncertainty. I was cold but sweating like I had just finished a triathlon.

I was breathing heavily as I lay down on the cot and covered up with the blanket. My skin itched from the fabric, but I ignored it. My eyes were too swollen, and I was too tired from crying and beating on the door to do anything but sleep.

I had the same dream about Italy for years, and I always woke up at the sound of the crash.

Tonight was different. As my eyes closed, the dream picked up where it left off.

The loud bang was like the ding of a bell at the beginning of a boxing match.

It was the feeling of terror that finally opened the door—the impossible feeling of dread and fear I was living in that pulled the curtain back and revealed the full nightmare.

* * * *

The door to our hotel room burst open, and a rush of people ran inside. My mother screamed at the top of her lungs. I jumped over the bed and hid between the nightstand and the wall. I didn't even think about it; the instinct to hide kicked in.

Three men were dressed in all black from head to toe: black suits, black undershirts, black ties, and black shoes. The only spit of color was red handkerchiefs in the breast pockets.

The first man through the door had slick brown hair and olive-colored skin. His face was square, and his jaw was covered with a thick, grizzly beard. A scar went through the center of his right eyebrow, exposing the only soft, pink skin on his face.

The other two men were taller and leaner.

One guy had brown hair with white streaks salting the sandiness, and the other was blonde.

They almost looked like siblings. They had the same blue eyes, same round faces, and same thin lips.

They even stood with the same wide stance and dangling arms that looked too thin for their broad bodies.

The square-faced man quickly grabbed my mother and covered her mouth with a white cloth. She tussled and fought, punching and kicking until her limbs went limp and her eyes closed. My small body shook as tears streamed down my face.

“Get the girl,” the man holding my pendulous mother said.

The other two men looked in my direction with simultaneous head flicks. They stood still but only briefly. The man with blonde hair darted in my direction with his arms out. His lips were twisted, and his teeth were bared like a rabid raccoon lunging forward.

I tried to scramble under the bed as I yelled, “Mom! Mom! Wake up!” My feeble legs pushed and bucked. My toes dug into the plush carpet, scraping with urgency to get away.

I was almost all the way under the bed when the man grabbed my ankle and yanked me out like a farmer plucking a piglet from its mother's nipple. He pulled so hard it felt like my leg was going to pop out of the socket. I wiggled and flung my arms, trying to break free.

His giant hands pinched and bit at my skin as he gained control of me. The man's hand slid across my face, and I chomped down hard. Warm blood smeared my lips. I could taste the sour and tangy iron in my mouth.

“Ah! Fuck! The little bitch bit me!” he yelled, releasing me to look at the wound on his hand.

“Just fucking get her, Shit-head!” the scarred man barked.

I tried to run, but my muscles didn't want to work properly. They were like cooked spaghetti, flaccid, weak, and buckling under my weight.

The blonde man became more aggressive, grabbing me so hard his fingertips hit the bone. I let out a blood-curdling scream. He put me in a bear hug and lifted me off the ground. “Gotcha,” he said playfully. “You ain't going anywhere.”

“Let me go! Mom! Mom, wake up!” I screamed, reaching my arms desperately toward her.

But she didn't respond. Her eyes stayed shut, and her body was still.

Through my screams, I cried. I wept for my mother, uncertain if she was alive or dead.

I wept for myself, scared of what would happen to me next.

I wept from the fear that my life was over.

“Will you shut her the fuck up?” the man holding my mother said.

Before I could react, the third man lurched forward and covered my mouth with the same type of white cloth that was used on my mother. I took a few deep, frantic breaths. My eyes connected with the man holding my mom. He grinned a big, crooked, lopsided grin. Then everything went black.