Alexander

I won’t cower; and I won’t cave to their demands. Money isn’t going to buy me out of this hellhole. Only my blood seems to suffice, and they refuse to take it. I won’t offer it to them. Not with as much as I have to live for.

Sara Jane.

I have to get back to her. She’ll think I left her. She’ll start to believe I can actually walk away from her willingly. I’ve given her so much grief; my disappearance will only deepen that pain. I couldn’t kill Connor Johnson, but I will kill the bastards who keep me here. One way or another, I’ll figure out how to do it, and there will be no hesitation. I won’t feel their loved ones’ pain or guilt. I’ll fucking kill them for causing my Firefly pain.

The closet I’m stuck in, the room with no windows and not enough space to spread my legs out, is pitch black. There’s too much time to think, to reflect, to plot in here. I should sleep, knowing I need to keep my strength, but is it day or night? My body’s clock is off.

My head pounds at times from the blunt blow I took when they grabbed me. One minute I was waiting at a light, the next I woke up on the cement floor of what looks to be a warehouse. Tied in a chair, I expected to be beaten. Isn’t that the point of going to all that trouble, or have the movies misled me?

I wasn’t beaten.

I wasn’t even touched.

No words were spoken since there was nobody there to speak. I called out, but my voice answered in an echo. Just my motorcycle and me in the hollows of some abandoned building. Someone doesn’t go to those lengths to let you sit alone. Something worse is coming.

I was right. Cruise was tossed on the floor in the middle of the night of what he said was day three of my abduction.

I wake to the sound of a creaking door to the room I’ve been in since the first night. It is too dark to know who it is. The body is lifeless, unrecognizable in the lack of light. I don’t even know if the man is dead or alive until he groans in pain. “Cruise?”

Making out the lines of the body, his hair, his eyes when they land on me, he says, “King?”

I move closer until the chain grinds into my wrists. “Fuck, Cruise. Are you okay? Are you okay?” I hadn’t felt hope until this moment, but it is short-lived. Cruise was taken and is now trapped like me.

“I don’t fucking know. I can’t feel my—” He coughs. It sounds wet, maybe blood. He lays his head on the concrete, and his breathing deepens. “They beat the fuck out of me, but you survived it, so I will.”

They haven’t touched me other than getting me here. I’m thinking now might not be a good time to tell him. I bring my knees up and lean back against the rough wall. “I have chains around me. I can’t reach you.”

Lifting his head, he looks in my direction. “Chained?” He pushes up and slides closer. “You’ve been here the whole time?”

“For the most part, yeah, but I’ve lost track of time in here.”

“You’ve been missing for over three days.”

Fuck.

“Is Sara Jane okay?”

“She’s fine. Worried, but okay.”

“Why would they kidnap you and bring you here?” A coughing fit catches his breath, and he struggles in front of me, but I can’t help. I can’t even fucking reach him. “Cruise?”

When the fit calms, he sounds exhausted. “I think something’s broken inside me.”

“Something?”

“I’m bleeding every time I cough.”

Shit. “I’m sorry.”

“You don’t have to be. I told Sara Jane I would find you.” He laughs and then cringes in pain. “Guess I did. I’m just glad you’re alive, brother.”

When he moves closer, we fist-bump. My eyes have adjusted enough to see his face. “I can’t say it’s good to see you because I can’t promise this isn’t the worst place to end up.”

“Seems pretty shitty.”

That’s not even half of it.

* * *

“You, Alexander, are every wish I ever made. You’re my dream come true. I’m so sorry . . . I will always come back to you.”

Her words come back to me as if the sweet melody of my Firefly said them yesterday. Maybe it was, though the hunger pangs and hair on my face probably contradicts that.

Surely it’s not been more than a few days. Cruise says ten. I’m in denial. I started counting the sunsets that peek through the cracks, but lost track when I was thrown in the closet for hours, days . . . what felt like weeks. I don’t think it’s been weeks.

“Why don’t they just kill us?” Cruise asks through swollen lips. They beat the shit out of him to get to me. He takes it.

Every night. For me.

I’ll never be able to repay him. I also don’t think I’ll get the chance. We’re not getting out of this place alive. That much we both know. I don’t know why he continues to step in for me or why they don’t grab me themselves. I’m hungry and weak; my muscles atrophy more every day. The chains around my wrists limit my movement, and I’m unable able to stand.

Someone with a mask and bad taste in shoes tosses metal dog dishes with foul-smelling meat of some sort to the concrete floor and toes it over until we can reach. Another meal served on a silver platter. I laugh, delirium setting in. “I’m not eating anymore of that shit.”

“Eat,” Cruise says. “Keep what energy we have.”

“How do we know they aren’t poisoning us?”

He swallows a mouthful, holds up his chained wrists, then replies, “Because that would be painless, and it’s obvious they want us to suffer.”

“Sara Jane once made this casserole dish. It had ground beef on the bottom—”

“Shut up, King. Eat.”

Bending down like a dog, I take a bite.

* * *

Morning comes and we see the light as it drifts across the wall, the sun rising. I look over at Cruise—new bruises mar his pretty-boy face. “The girls are going to love you. You already had the bad-boy act down. Now you look like you can actually hold your own.” I tease to lighten the doom, but I feel like shit, seeing him busted up.

“The girls already love me.” He smiles as he winces in pain.

“How’s the other guy look?”

A chuckle sticks heavy in his chest and ends in coughing.

I force myself to chuckle to keep his spirits up. This is how we operate—give and take. Take and give. Staring at the cracks near the ceiling where the light shines bright, I whisper, “Hey Cruise?”

“Yeah?”

“Thanks for being my friend, for having my back, for—”

“Fuck that, King. Those are dying words. I’m not ready to die, are you?”

“No.” Turning toward him, I exhale. “But we don’t know what they want.”

“You,” he answers without hesitating. “They want you.”

“But they don’t take me. They take you.”

“They’re just going to take everyone else around you and make you watch.” There are only two people I care about. Cruise knows this already.

Him.

Sara Jane.

They know about Cruise, whoever they are. But do they know about Sara Jane? Do they have her already? My hands fist, and I hit the cinder blocks that surround me. I hadn’t even thought about them having Sara Jane. If they hurt her . . . touch one hair on her head—I look at the chains and throw my arms out in anger, the dirty metal slicing into my skin. She’s alive. I know she is. I would feel it if she wasn’t. I have to hold on to that, to her, in any way I can because she keeps me going.

Whoever is in that heaven above we so desperately want to reach, please, protect my Firefly.

Fuck.

* * *

Separately, we’re each taken from the room twice a day to use the toilet. Guess that wasn’t a feature they thought of having when they built what we call our cell. Weeks in, whatever it’s been, my body is revolting. Every time I leave, it’s more noticeable, but I refuse to look weak in front of them. I refuse to let them see they’re breaking me.

Led by a guy with a gun held to our heads, we walk down the corridor along the large silver pipes that buzz loudly. This is why screaming never worked. Wherever we are, wherever these pipes lead to, nothing will be heard above them. Once in the filthy bathroom, we’re given a few minutes of privacy. My mind drifts like it does in that casket of a room. I’ll die there. Or in that closet they love to torment me with, but I’ll die with her beauty filling my thoughts . . .

Her hair blows in the wind, her mouth a shade darker than the natural pink of her lips, her eyes watching me. It should have been the best day of her life. All her work has paid off, but my Firefly doesn’t even seem aware of the graduation festivities or the congratulations. Not the presents, or the hugs. Her eyes close with each person she embraces but when they open, they find me immediately, and a small smile appears.

My memories are better to visit than this disgusting toilet. I barely piss anymore much less the other. My body’s shutting down. The ache in my side is growing with each passing day. Walking with my arms at my side, the metal cuffs are still heavy even without the chains attached. I couldn’t successfully fight my way out, if I even had the strength to try. Instead of physical warfare, I go for mental. It’s the only chance I have, though this guy never answers me. “You going to fill me in on why I’m here?”

That question never receives a response, so I move to the next. “How much are you making? I can pay more.”

The offer is never accepted. I usually get a grumble from it though. Today, I’m not even rewarded with that. “Why’d you bring Cruise into this?” I say his name to the guy with the gun as often as I can. It will humanize him in ways I think this guy’s disconnected. If I can’t save myself, I’ll try my damnedest to save my best friend.

Thrown back in the cell with Cruise, I stumble when pushed. Landing on my hands and knees, and staring at the dirty concrete I’ve been forced to endure day in and day out, I vow right then, I will take these motherfuckers down even if it is done with my last breath.

The chains are attached to the shackles, and a gun is still held so close to my head I can feel the cold barrel. I feel the minutest movement. The ski mask is fitted down to the base of his throat, but when he looks up, that divot is exposed. With light from the sun sneaking in, I study the metal around my wrists and watch as he turns the gun on Cruise, tapping his head with that same barrel.

Cruise glances at me, and I nod just enough for him to know—do whatever it takes to protect yourself. I won’t forget him, but he needs to forget me. He needs to save himself. “You fucking fight.”

“I’ll fight till the end, but if I don’t return, I’ll see you in the afterlife.”

“Fuck that. I’ll see you in a few hours.”

He’s shoved to the ground just outside the door, and I hear a faint “Fuck you,” in true Cruise style once it’s shut.

Along with Firefly, he’s the strongest person I know. She’s never far from my mind, but I think about her more frequently, not in the memories, but because I know she’s next. Cruise has been here long enough to know their plan doesn’t work—whatever their plan is. They’ll move to the next tactic, and I don’t think the answers for the questions I ask will matter anymore.

It may be ironic that what got me into this mess was searching for answers. Now I have none where it concerns my mother’s death, and I’m certain I’ll be left with even more for mine.