TOUCH OF BITTERSWEET (Touch Trilogy #2)

12. Small comforts

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He cupped his shaky hands over the small puddle on the dirty floor. The darkness that swallowed the room mostly obscured the crack in the ceiling, yet a sliver of moonlight glistened on the drops of water that threatened to fall.

Thirst scratched at his throat, almost as painful as the dull sting of the fresh marks that decorated his lower ribcage. Every intake of air pulled at the cuts, like a sharp knife dancing across his skin, but he stifled his whimpers. The house was uncharacteristically quiet, and he hoped to keep it that way.

A small drop plunged into his hands. It slipped between as if in slow motion, no matter how desperately he pressed them together. With his heart twisting in his chest, his eyes darted to the dirty floor, only to find it, like his hands, suddenly bone-dry, as if the water had never existed. His hands curled into fists, nails biting into his skin.

Above him, the crack was now thinner, shorter, and farther away than he thought. Had he been waiting in the wrong spot?

Another drop broke away from the ceiling, diving into a small puddle a few steps from him. He hurried across the floor, disregarding the sting of gravel on his palms and knees. A deep exhale left his burning chest, and he almost smiled, gazing at the water. Too shallow to cup into his hands, he leaned down to sip it right from the ground. He closed his eyes, anticipating the feeling of the water against his chapped lips, but only the cold floor met him. Pulling back, confusion turned to panic as he watched the puddle seep into the concrete like a sponge. He frantically patted the area, his fingers scraping raw against the ground as he desperately tried to grasp onto the water. At last, it disappeared, a faint wet patch staring back at him, mocking him. His eyes burned in frustration; bile rose in his throat.

It was useless. There was no point. He would never escape the torture. No one would come for him. He was bound to waste there, or maybe they would kill him first. Maybe they would decide to leave him there and—

A creaking sound had him jerking his head towards the entrance There, at the top of the stairs, shrouded in darkness, stood the old wooden door that led out of the basement. The house was still silent, with no hints of steps approaching to torment him. Even on the rare occasions one of them would bring him food that wasn't dry or covered in mould, he could hear them coming.

Another creak. Maybe it was a trick of the light, or the incensing thirst, pain and desperation were taking over his mind, but for a fleeting instant, he thought the door shifted.

He froze - breath caught in his throat - ready to crawl into a corner if someone stepped in. Ready to fight, even if he always found himself overpowered. But no one came in.

Again, the door swayed, as if grazed by a breeze. His pulse turned erratic as he scrambled to unstable feet. Gaze locked onto the exit, he stepped forward, flinching at the gravel crunching under his naked foot. A deep breath, and he gave another step and another.

At the foot of the stairs, he stared up at the light that leaked into the darkness, calling him, beckoning him closer. His legs trembled under him, yet the promise of freedom pushed him forward.