Page 117 - The Houseguest

ripped from her scalp instead and she winced in pain. Unconcerned, I placed it on the nightstand. There would probably be more to come.
I tried to read her thoughts, trying to foresee her first reaction. I would’ve bet she would try to free her hands first, but I would’ve been wrong. She writhed her body and twisted her feet in an attempt to slip out of the chains on her ankles. But, like I’ve said, I am good at everything I do. Then I saw why she’d tried to free her feet first. The chains had kinked and trapped some of the skin around her ankle bone. It was raw and bleeding and frankly, it looked quite painful. Suddenly, I got up and went into the kitchen to pour a cold glass of tomato juice.
I walked out to the front porch, turning my head along the way to cast a random glance here and there at the furniture and things. Every decoration held a story -- where we’d found it, why Karina liked it, where we discussed it should be displayed. Each piece of furniture represented a tiny slice of our lives. In the corner, the couch where we watched movies, completed crossword puzzles and sat to talk about the future. Near the couch was a strategically placed coffee table where we played the Candy Land game repeatedly with Katie, who would win most of the time. There was a time these memories would insert themselves into my mind like a sharp blade cutting their way through. But today, I was able to completely disregard the items, and the memories they held, with ease. I felt a smirk form across my mouth, a sneer jam-packed with ill intentions. And it felt fine, just fine.
I walked back into the kitchen figuring I would offer my hostage some food, though I had anticipated she would refuse nourishment until at least day four. After all, my plan was not to starve her to death. What
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The Houseguest by Linda Ellis www.LindaEllis.life