Caged, p.4
CAGED, page 4
Instead of answering, he heads towards the door. Before he opens it, he says, “You need to be ready when I come back.”
“Yes, master.” I say with enough snark that would have Dorothy from the Golden Girls proud. The fact that I’m comparing my snark to that of a star in a television sitcom that was popular in the 80’s, confirms I have no life outside of what my daughter and I do. He doesn’t bother to reply to my snarky comment. Once he’s gone, I dig into breakfast. It’s another hearty meal much to my stomach’s delight. I rush through breakfast and go to the bathroom. As I’m brushing my hair, it dawns on me that these clothes fit perfectly. Which means these creeps have been planning this a while and were even able to prepare for my arrival with clothes that fit perfectly, and a bathroom and bedroom furnished with all I’d need to be the perfect little fighter they need. The whole thing makes me sick. How does the government not know about this? How many innocent people are taken like this?
The beep of the door makes me jump. I hurry through brushing the rest of my hair, grab a hair tie and throw my hair up. I take one last look in the mirror to ensure I have the look of cool indifference in place. Once I’m sure I have the appropriate mask in place, I head out. Stepping into the bedroom I see Gage. He may be annoying as hell, but the man can pull off intimidating like it’s a second skin. And I hate how handsome he is. Is there some rule that says if you’re sexy you have to be a jerk? He smirks, almost like he hears my thoughts. Shaking my head, I walk towards the door.
“Shall we?” I ask and stand in front of the door with all attitude. The feeling that I could really die at any minute, has me acting reckless. I know this, and I can’t seem to stop it. I’ve always been a fighter in life. Not to mention, stubborn. Those two personality traits combined can make a mean attitude, and that attitude is currently rearing it’s ugly head. Gage ignores my question and reaches around me for the door, and grabs a hold of my arm to guide me out with a firm, but gentle, grip. As we get out into the Hallway, I notice there’s a guard stationed at the end of the hallway. Gage sees my line of sight and gives my arm a little tug. I shoot a rude look his way but keep silent.
Two more right turns, and what feels like four hours later, we finally arrive at a steel door. This door has a regular knob, no lock. Once Gage opens the door, I’m shocked at what I see. There’s a gym. An actual gym. This house must be massive because this is the type of gym that’s big enough to have a mini track around it with mats in the center. There are punching bags in the far left corner, and fighting weapons lining the adjacent walls. Holy crap, this is every work out junky’s dream gym. I’m even strangely fascinated. Which is saying a lot considering I’m sure to get my butt kicked in this very room.
Gage leads me to the middle and let’s go of my arm. “Stretch.” He demands. I make a face he can’t see as he turns and walks over towards the door. He takes off his pullover sweatshirt, and I can’t help but notice when his shirt gets pulled up in the process. Holy abs… He has an extremely defined six pack. Who has abs like that besides billboard models, which most of those models probably have their abs spray painted on. Not him. His shirt drops back into place, and I’m oddly disappointed. At the sound of Gage clearing his throat, I jerk my eyes up to his face. It’s then I realize I was still staring at where I saw his abs before his shirt covered them. I look up into his face and his lips twitch. “You ready?” Horrified, I feel my cheeks heat at being caught staring, but instead of replying, I turn and start stretching. I’m losing my mind. What’s that called when you lust after your captor? Stockholm syndrome?
“What exactly are we doing?” I bend over to touch my toes as I wait for his answer. When I don’t get one, I glance over at him.
“I should think that would be obvious. I explained that I was going to train you, and I only have so much time to get it done before your next fight.” I stand straight up and put my hands on my hips.
“How much time do I have?” He crosses his arms, and seems to consider his answer to my question.
“Fights happen every month. We’ll train until then.” I just want to cry. I rarely cry when I’m sad. Now, crying when I’m pissed? Happens all the time. Not knowing when you die is a blessing. I’ve never thought of it like that, but it is. Because this? Having my death sought after in the most gruesome of ways, makes me feel as if my life has an expiration date. A date that is almost up. I look down at my feet and take a deep breath. When I blow it out, the anger is still there. I feel like screaming and raging.
“How much are they paying you?” I slowly look up at Gage. His features harden and his lips thin. Why does he get so angry? Does he even have a right to get angry? If he’s trained other American’s like me, surely, he’s been asked this question multiple times.
Instead of answering me, he says, “Hate me all you want. It doesn’t change your circumstances. The fact remains, you have a fight in a month. You can either accept the training you’re being offered or you can cry about it and curl up into a ball. Your choice. But, decide quickly because I’m no one’s babysitter.” My laugh echoes in the gym, and it’s a very bitter sound.
“Is this where you tell me I’m supposed to be grateful?” He uncrosses his arms and steps forward.
“Not grateful. Smart. You will only ever get as far as you allow yourself to.” Before I can open my mouth to reply, he says, “We’re starting with a run.” I just cross my arms and look at him. His expression never changes as he says, “I should also inform you, that should you choose not to cooperate, they will throw you back in that cement block to allow you to live out the rest of your days by a death that occurs very slowly.” The hairs on the back of my neck raise and my skin breaks out in goose bumps at the mention of that cement cell room that had chains hanging on the walls. A look must cross my face because Gage looks satisfied with my reaction. I just shake my head and turn towards the track.
As I start running, my mind starts running in a million different directions. One of which is, how dangerous it was for me to think of Gage as someone who wouldn’t hurt me. His comment only confirmed he is just as barbaric as those who run this hell hole, if not worse. How do I know he isn’t actually the true operator of everything? In order to have any chance at all at surviving, I need to keep my head on straight. Enemies. All of them. With that in mind, I do my best to focus.
I’ve always loved running, and the way that it slowly warms your muscles. Something about this particular exercise just causes the stress to melt from my body. It’s a relief, really. Layla usually accompanies me on my runs. She loves riding in her stroller, so she enjoys the outings as much as I do. Well, enjoyed. I’m probably never going to see her again. As bitter as I am with Alan, at least I know he loves her. He’ll always take care of her. That’s assuming that Naheem upheld to his word. At that thought, I stop and swing my gaze around to where Gage was standing. But he’s not there. I turn and he’s right behind me. “What the hell?” I shriek.
“I train with all of my trainees. I don’t tell you to do anything I won’t do.” I snort.
“How very noble of you.” He just crosses his arms. I mimic his pose.
“Did they let my husband go?” His top lip curls in a look of disgust.
“He’s been taken care of.” My heart stops.
“What does that mean?” He doesn’t say anything, he just stares. His silence makes me snap.
“I DID EVERYTHING YOU ASKED! DID YOU KILL HIM?!!!” I scream. Next thing I know, I’m flying at him in a flurry of punches. None of my efforts are coordinated, but I don’t care. I’m furious. I’m punching anything that I can connect with. Anything that’s flesh. It takes me a minute to realize all Gage is doing is defending himself. He’s made no move to strike me, and he seems to be letting me take my rage out on him. I know I look like a mad woman right now. Knowing this makes me angrier. I want to hurt him as bad as they hurt me. Alan was a horrible husband, terrible really, and he all but gave me to these lunatics as a gift; but he’s still Layla’s father. The only thing keeping me from falling to pieces was the knowledge that Layla’s daddy would be there to take care of her. For all his faults, he’s a good dad.
Gage must tire of me trying to beat him, because soon he grabs both of my wrists, hooks his leg behind my legs, but instead of completing whatever maneuver he was trying to, we stumble and slam to the ground. In no time, he has me pinned beneath him. We just stare at each other. The only sound in the gym is my heavy breathing. He isn’t even breathing hard. Which makes me even more aware of the fact that I probably looked and acted like a complete lunatic.
“Your husband is home. I’m the one that supervised his safe transfer.” He all but growls at me. I continue to glare at him.
“How do I know you’re telling the truth?” He shrugs his massive shoulders and says,
“You don’t.” I stare at him for a second and then look away and digest what he’s saying. He’s right, there’s no way that I can know for sure if he’s telling the truth. And what’s worse…there’s nothing I can do about it. At this realization, the fight goes out of me.
“Enough. Don’t do that. That fight. That spirit you just displayed? Is exactly what you need to stay alive in these fights. They aren’t expecting a woman to have as much fire as you. That will be your secret weapon. Use your anger to help you survive.” I turn my head back to him and look him in the eye.
“Is that what you say to all of your other trainees? Did you get the others fired up too? Were they anxious to march to their death?” He jerks back as if I slapped him. It wasn’t until he jerked back that I realized how close we had been. There was barely an inch of space between our faces. He gets up and backs up. When I try to stand, he doesn’t offer a lending hand. Once I’m on my feet I look up at him. He has his mask set back into place and is looking at me with complete indifference.
“Get back to running.” He snips. We have an awkward stare down for a few seconds before I slowly turn and begin to run. This time, he doesn’t join me. He walks to the door and doesn’t stop as I expect him too, instead he continues on through the door and slams it behind him. I stop running. This could be my chance to try and make my escape. I stop running and look around for an alternate exit. The thought hadn’t even fully formed when the door opened again. I whirl back around toward the door. Not Gage. It’s the guard that was at the end of the hall earlier when we walked by.
“Aren’t you supposed to be training?” He has a heavy accent, but I just manage to make out the words. I hold his stare without answering, which seems to irritate him. He starts towards me. I’m terrified, but I hold my ground. “In my household, you would be beaten for your insolence. Do as your told American dog.” He all but growls at me. Since when did being American be considered as a disease? Have I been so sheltered since I married Alan, that I have been oblivious to all the countries hating Americans? The way he says “American” it’s as if he feels that term is utterly disgusting to him. He reaches me and says, “Get to training.”
“Where’s Gage?” Suddenly, I’m wishing for Gage’s presence. Gage is no peach, but something seems off with this guy. I can tell he has a temper, and it’s clear he doesn’t hold me in a very high regard. Not that Gage does, but still. Gage is better than this guy. This guy gives me the vibe that he is very clearly unstable. I bet he flies off the handle on the regular.
“Did I tell you to speak, dog?” He spits at me. I know my eyes are all but spitting fire at him after he calls me dog again. He grabs my arm in a painful grip and rips me toward him. Slowly, and I’m sure it’s meant to intimidate due to my lack of height, he lowers his head towards mine until he is completely in my face and whispers, “You are nothing here…perhaps I should show you just how little you are.” He thrusts his hips toward mine to make it clear what he intends to do. My whole body goes rigid. I shove against his chest to get some space. He barely moves. Before panic can fully set in, I hear “Ronan!” Barked in an extremely deep, masculine voice. I’m assuming that, Ronan, is the jerk’s name that is trying to have his way with me because he freezes. We both turn to the newcomer, and we see Gage. Seeing Gage floods me with a sense of relief. He looks furious as he pounds his way over to us.
“Get your hands off of her. You know Naheem would never allow this.” Gage never takes his eyes off of Ronan. Almost as if he’s challenging him. For a second, I don’t think that Ronan is going to let go, but a feeling of fire on my arm jerks my gaze down to where Ronan all but pinches and scratches me as he releases me with a shove. I cry out at the pain and stumble back. Gage’s eyes narrow on where I’m clutching my arm. “Leave, Ronan. Before I even the playing field.” Ronan stares for what couldn’t be longer than a couple of seconds, but feels like hours, and then without another word, he leaves. I release the breath I didn’t even realize I was holding and look down at my arm and grimace. It’s bright red where his hands dragged across my skin and deep gashes are there from his nails. It throbs. Did I mention I was a germaphobe? I jump when a hand gingerly inspects my arm. Gage. I didn’t hear him move, but here he is, right in front of me examining my wound. I look up at him, but he isn’t looking at me, instead he’s intensely examining my wound. With how furious he was a moment ago, for whatever reason, I wouldn’t have thought he would be able to handle me so gently, but he does.
“It’s not too bad, but we need to disinfect the scratches.” He says. I just nod my head. He glances up and our gazes lock. I look away. Swallowing my pride, I whisper, “Thank you.”
He shrugs and says, “He can’t damage the goods. He knows that.” I rear back from him and jerk my arm from his grasp. He lets me. Almost like he knew that I was too disgusted to even have him near me, he takes a step back from me.
“Got it.” I turn and start running. How I was lulled into a false sense of security is beyond me. I’m on my own. These people are all out for only one thing: Entertainment by me fighting for my life. Even though my arm is throbbing, I’ll live. So, I keep running. I glance over my shoulder, and Gage is at the other side of the Gym opening a door that leads to some sort of closet. He pulls out a first aid kit and turns and meets my eye. I just roll my eyes and shout, “No thanks!” He just shakes his head and drops the bag at his feet. Whatever. I could care less what he thinks. He’s just as dangerous and cold as the rest of them. I’d do well to remember it. After about 30 minutes of running, I’m hot, tired and sweaty, and I’m pretty sure that I’m moving at a slug’s pace. Gage calls for me to stop, and motions for me to meet him in the middle of the mats.
“Stretch while your muscles are warm.” He grumbles at me. He starts to stretch, so I just follow his lead. All too soon he straightens and says, “Okay. It’s time to start a few basic maneuvers. Nothing too difficult.” I don’t bother to respond. Instead, I cross my arms and observe his quick combo. When he’s done, he steps back and says, “Okay. You try.” I half-heartedly give it a try, and then shrug. I really have no idea what I’m doing, and I know there’s no way I will survive another round anyways. So, what’s the point? If the first guy I fought with was considered a horrible fighter, then being placed against a good one will be a wash. I’m basically in hell. We continue maneuvers for what seems like forever. He shows me maneuvers and then I repeat them. Finally, he calls for a lunch break. Instead of going to my room like I figured we would, he tosses me a brown paper sack. Inside is an apple, sandwich and carrot sticks. Decent lunch, if you’re in grade school.
“Do I just sit here and eat?” He doesn’t answer as he walks over to the far side of the gym and lowers himself to the ground and starts to eat an identical lunch. Okay, then. I guess that means I’m eating here. I head in the opposite direction of him and start to eat my lunch. Ham sandwich. I hate ham. I look up and he’s staring at me.
“Is something not to your liking?” I’m surprised he noticed. I didn’t openly grimace, I was only thinking how much I hated ham.
“No. I’m fine.” After a minute of staring at me as if I’m some puzzle he’s trying to solve, he looks away and continues eating. After a very quiet lunch, literally, we didn’t speak, he instructs me to do a light jog. I’ve always had a great time running, but this is excessive. It’s not like I can run away from my opponent, so I feel like this running business is a bit much. But, I do as I’m told. After what must be an hour, he instructs me to do my stretches so we can begin sparring. I’ve never truly sparred before, so this will be a new experience for me. My brother has taught me self-defense maneuvers, but truly sparring? That’s never happened.
I get to the mat and fold my arms. He raises an eyebrow at my stance. “Hit me.” He tells me. Now it’s my turn to raise my eyebrow at him. Although I’m not big on violence, he has no idea how tempting that offer is. As if he read my mind he taunts, “I know you’ve imagined smashing my face numerous times. Well, now’s your chance. Hit me.” I stare at him a moment longer, to pretend like I’m debating it. Then, as fast as I can, I throw a punch. The satisfying crunch of his face against my fist never comes. Much to my disappointment, he dodges it and grabs my wrist, twists and sweeps my legs out from underneath me. My breath leaves me in whoosh. While I try to catch my breath, I look up at him, and he’s looking down at me with a smirk on his face while he says, “You’re going to have to do better than that.” My earlier thoughts come back to me at his comment. What’s the point? I can feel my mask of indifference fall into place. His eyebrows come together at my expression. Sighing, he holds out his hand to help me up. I ignore it and jump to my feet. He looks at me and says, “Again. Only this time, I’ll slow it down so you can see what I do.” And so, it goes on and on. For the next few days, my days consist of the same thing. Eat, sleep and train. Then get up and repeat.
Sitting in my room after dinner, I stare out my window. I find myself constantly gravitating toward the window in my “room” whenever I’m left alone. I have no idea why I torture myself. Seeing all the free openness outside of the window makes me yearn for my freedom even more. My emotions are a mess. One day I’m raging angry and ready to fight for my life, and the next, I’m so immersed in self-pity, I can’t even find it within myself to give a valid effort. I stretch my neck to the side to try and rid myself of the stiffness from all my training. I swear I’m using muscles I didn’t even know I had. I’m five days into my training, and I’m surprised I’ve survived Gage’s training sessions. The man can train. He’s like a machine. Gage has mentioned that fights occur monthly, so that would mean I have roughly 3 weeks left before my demise. Do I stand a chance, or am I doomed like I’ve been feeling? With a sigh, I walk back over to my bed and get settled in for the night. Just as I’m about to doze, I hear the squeak of the door handle.
