Page 3 of What’s Left of You (What Left #2)

“ Oh, Porscha!”

My voice is scratchy, but I still manage to give it a little sing-song rhythm.

I can hear her moving around upstairs, the creaky floorboards above the sunken basement enough to give me some idea what she’s doing.

This room is all I’ve seen for the last several weeks, and Porscha started mocking me last week about how much time has passed, so now I at least have some sort of idea how long I’ve been trapped.

My vision is hazy as I look around the dreary room. If there are any windows, it’s hidden behind the piles of stuff that fill the space. The only window I can see is at the very top of the stairs, and it took a while to realize that’s what it is since I can only see part of it.

The scent of damp soil and rotting wood made me realize there’s mold in here and based on how close my bed is to the ceiling this has to be a storage room. It’s not anyplace fit for humans. But then again, maybe that’s how Porscha sees me.

When we first arrived here, I was covered in scrapes and bruises from the rough trip down, thanks to Porscha knocking me around.

There was a welt that ached for a week on the back of my head that stopped hurting a long time ago.

Moving me all by herself was a little harder than she expected and my body paid the price for it.

I lick my lips. Dry. She doesn’t give me much to drink since the last time she did I spit it back at her.

The tubes take care of that now, just like everything else.

My body is basically paralyzed, the feeling wearing off until she doses me again with whatever she's using to subdue me.

Sometimes the dose is strong enough I get to doze away in this lonely little room.

My eyes rake around the room. She’s turned a rope into a clothes line of sorts, hanging different outfit pieces off of stolen hangers across the low ceiling.

It’s a unique way to recognize the dead.

I remember some of the items. When my head is royally fucked up sometimes dear sweet Fake Porscha appears in the clothes around the room.

Sometimes the apparition appears with more memories than I like to admit, and that’s when I know I’m higher than a fucking kite.

It’s one of the few things that helps me differentiate nightmares from reality.

I clear my throat again, ignoring the way it hurts. She’s dancing around upstairs, jumping on the floorboards. I think the ceiling is literally shaking. “Porscha!”

“Alastair,” she mimics, her voice carrying down the stairs with the same rhythm mine did. She’s mocking me again. The air around me pulses with the sound of her voice, looking like red waves. Like the way my vision goes red when I think of her. “Were you my good boy today?”

She says it like an endearment, but it’s anything but. The only time anyone’s ever called me that, the results weren’t favorable. It makes me want to break through the bindings, strength and struggles be damned, to be free of her. Maybe free from everyone if I could get away.

What kind of force could I be if I tried to break out? Porscha knows I won’t risk her going back to finish anyone off. Like last time, she’s found my achilles heel. Fifteen, nearly sixteen years hasn’t changed my weak point.

Her heels click on the stairs as she comes down, and I have a clear view of her as she approaches. It’s unfortunate, and if I didn’t need to keep her in my line of vision I’d close my eyes. I’m pretty sure hell doesn’t even have torture quite like this.

“What do you think?” she asks, cupping her breasts to push them up in the see-through bra. I give up, dragging my eyes skyward so I can look at the ceiling instead. “I think it really highlights my assets.”

And because I’m pretty sure I’d rather die at this point, I egg her on. “It would look better on Jo.”

She’s across the room in seconds, her steps heavy. I only see the sway of her hair and her violent eyes for a moment before the stinging in my cheek distracts me.

It’s hard enough that I can taste a little blood. God damn it, Porscha.

“Don’t speak of that harlot,” she growls, the venom in her voice almost as strong as the slap.

I try to lift my arm, but as usual when I’m sober, she’s got me restrained.

I don’t know what she keeps giving me, but when the high is gone I’m exhausted and feel sick.

She’s given it to me enough times over the last few weeks that when the high is gone, I crave its return.

This feels too familiar to the past, except I’m an adult now paying for our crimes, and she’s a lunatic who’s keeping me sedated with drugs.

My head falls to the side, and I stare across the small space. Fake Porscha is behind her, blond hair still intact unlike the severe bob this Porscha wears, and I struggle to wave to the fake one. Unlike in the past, she doesn’t wave back. She just sits there watching us.

“Focus,” Porscha says, grasping my cheeks to turn my head back to the ceiling. That need to be sick returns. “Come on. We’re going to try again.”

A chill rushes through me at her words, and I lift my head to glare.

Porscha’s taken her sweet time setting shit up since we got here weeks ago, and the light that casts down from the window upstairs tells me the difference between day and night.

I know I’m missing days, but it’s hard to keep track when I’m in and out so often.

At some point since she dragged me out of prison the orange jumpsuit disappeared.

Most everything disappeared. I’ve kept my boxers, but that’s about it.

It lets me study my skin when she’s not down here bothering me, which is good and bad.

I have fresh cuts across my skin that I don’t remember where they came from.

But I would take all of the cuts ten times over if she’d stop trying to do this.

“I’ll get you in the mood,” Porscha continues, tapping my chest. Her nails are uneven, half of the press-on nails missing as she shifts around the room. My glare follows her, and I pause just long enough to study my body.

I’m losing muscle the longer I’m here. I think that’s the point. The weaker I am the easier it’ll be for her to manipulate me when we need to move. If we move.

There’s needles that stick from my right arm, the left belted down. That’s familiar too, but I have more feeling in the arm she’s pricked too many times. Fading bruises highlight where she failed to administer an IV and whatever else she hooked me up to.

Chills work down my spine as I keep looking.

The few tattoos I have from prison are dark against my pale skin.

Being in prison, I saw the sun more than I have here and it’s given me a sickly look.

There are at least a dozen belts wrapped around my body to keep me down.

I have marks on my skin from where I’ve fought against the belts that are starting to heal.

I don’t remember fighting so I know I was under the influence of Porscha’s mystery drug when it happened.

“Do you need some inspiration?” Porscha continues, appearing on my other side. I narrow my eyes and say nothing. “Let’s remember what we have to lose here, boy.”

She opens a small laptop. It’s dated and chunky, looking more like an oversized Gameboy than a real laptop. I can’t imagine where she found a dinosaur like that, but it seems to serve the purpose she wants.

All she has to do is tap at a few keys and the image pops up. I hate what I see, but it’s there regardless. There’s no sound, and I don’t know if that’s better or worse as I stare.

Jo looks good. I have no idea what the camera is connected to but it seems to always be moving.

Sometimes it’s of her through the window of their house or a car, at the precinct, or in town.

It’s always her, and sometimes Vinny or Sterling if she’s standing with one or both of them.

The focus is definitely on Porscha’s daughter.

Right now she’s speaking with Vinny, who has her sitting on his lap. They are sitting in a living room. The camera isn’t close enough that I can read their lips, but their body language is obvious.

When she leans in to kiss him, my heart lurches at the sight.

He wraps his arms around her and moves his other hand, gripping her ass, and I’m vaguely surprised that they aren’t more concerned about someone peeping in.

This view is definitely shot through a window; I would think that if there was a camera outside their place, Vinny would be aware of it.

There’s humming, and I look away. Fake Porscha is still quiet, sitting in her place, but I can hear the humming noise somewhere in the room…

“Hearing things?” Porscha laughs, slamming the laptop shut as I turn back. “Let’s see if that’s enough to get you going.”

I hate her. I hate her so much. I envision catching her wrist, snapping her bones with ease.

If only I could twist my hands in the right direction, I could break her wrist. Break her fingers at each joint so she can’t hold anything ever again.

I could cut them off too, throw them out so stray dogs or wild animals could have a feast.

My mind is wandering, and I glare up at the ceiling again when she touches me.

Her hands go for my boxers, pulling back the waistband to fumble with my dick.

It’s flaccid in her hand, and I hear her growl of disapproval.

At one point she hooked me up to a catheter since he doesn’t trust moving me, and even that does nothing to help her make my dick hard.

I hope it’s a side effect of the drug she keeps pumping into my system.

That would serve her right. Her hand works to stroke me but my body remains unresponsive as she tries and fails to get me hard.

This part I remember vividly each time, and if she was successful even once I’m certain she would gloat about it.

Thus far all I seem to do is frustrate her.

Small miracles.