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Phew... that was a lot of shouting, but I'm just sososo excited for these to be released!
Oops. Almost forgot to say ...
Release Date: October 7th!!!
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An excerpt from What Lies, book 1 in the Existential Angst Duet
subject to revision, release date: Oct 7th 2021
“Get up.” He sounds close; his voice is low and full of idling command. Still, I roll over slowly. I have time; he didn’t open the cage door yet. The heavy metal scrapes against the concrete when it moves.
I have a false sense of security, being locked in here with him out there. I know it’s false because he’s going to come in. He has every day for four days now.
His voice deepens. “I won’t repeat myself, Larissa. You have one chance to obey me.” With the memory of yesterday still fresh, I sniffle and move.
His use of my name makes me cringe; I don’t know his. He seems to know a lot about me. He told me as much when I woke up in this cage. To prove his point, he said I must hate that my bedroom is still painted in shades of pink from when I was a kid because he knows my favorite color is green. He smiled telling me how sweet he thought it was that I laugh at stupid jokes but think spoof movies are horrible. He even managed to somehow look wistful when he said he agrees with me about classic lit—that it shouldn’t be boiled down to a Cliff Notes version for the unromantic.
I threw up in response. It was all true and horrifying to hear from a complete stranger.
Pulling myself up off the mattress on the floor, I sniffle more to stop new tears. I’ve done nothing but cry for four days. It’s more than I’ve cried my whole life. I’m not exactly known for my outbursts of emotions, even when I’m not so numb with terror that I can’t think straight. But thinking and crying are all I can do in this cage, and I’ve done a lot of both already.
It terrifies me that I don’t know anything about him, except that he must be sick. Only a sicko would take an eighteen-year-old girl from her backyard and toss her in a cage, right?
I don’t even know why he took me. He’s hardly talked to me since letting me know that he knows more about me than he should. He won’t answer any of my questions about what it is that he wants. He’s mostly just watched me, eerily silent, while I’ve tried to keep down tiny bites of the simple food he’s brought for me.
It’s given me plenty of time to think. I’ve not thought of anything constructive yet, but the numbness is starting to wear off. My terror is churning into a frustrated anger. It’s as useless to me as being numb with fear, but it’s something different at least.
On unsteady feet, I blink into the light behind him and suck in my breath fast. He seems taller this morning, like a genie that can grow at will to any size. And he’s shirtless. I’m trembling before I can even gather another breath. What new horror does he have in mind today?
As slowly as he moves forward, my feet move backwards. As he reaches the bars to this cage, I hit the ones to my back. As he unlocks the door, my hands come up. “Please…please…” The words stutter out of me. Fear steals my control and locks me in a perpetual repeat. “Please...”
“Stop, Larissa.” It’s a quick, graveled command.
Sucking my lips back, dry over my teeth, I try to reel in my fear. I’m panting with the effort, sweat dripping into my eyes. I try to think of something, anything beyond the black hole of terror that threatens to pinch my vision. I think about the sound the cage door makes when opening and imagine that it stays that way, that he’d let me just walk out of here soon. That sounds nice. Please, please…
“Good.”
The door closes, but he doesn’t bother locking it behind him. He knows that I know I can’t get away. That was the lesson yesterday. We played what he called “chicken on the run.” He let me try to get past him, try to make it to the door before him. He even sort of laughed when he left the key in the lock. I’m beat up all over from him grabbing and pulling me. My skin crawls at just the memory—the feel of his hands and arms on me.
Still, he was almost silent through it all, hardly reacting as I vacillated between screaming anger and pleading misery. I got more out of him when I was in shock and only able to ask questions in a pseudo-calm numbness on the first full day I was in here.
That might be the key to getting through to him—staying calm. It gives me some hope at least. I can be calm; I can squash my feelings. I do it all the time. I always have.
My breath is loud and hot through my open mouth. I tremble. The bars don’t move, and the bony points to me become numb with impact. Numb is good. Numb helps in staying calm.
“You pass out on me, and I’ll just wait until you wake up. Get control of your breathing.”
But I can’t. I was wrong. All of my past means of controlling my feelings fail me. Again. I erupt in sobs and clutch my waist. Bending over, I fall to the floor on my knees, my hands reaching out to catch myself. I retch, my empty stomach only hurting more without relief. I’ve barely had sips of water for almost two days. I thought he’d say something if I stopped eating, and my stomach wasn’t holding anything in anyway. He only kept his silence, not seeming to care what I did or didn’t do so long as I obeyed a direct order.
He quietly watches me, coldly waiting until I have nothing left. Tears won’t even keep me company in here for long anymore.
I finally look up through my dark blonde hair dangling in my face. My arms burn from holding myself up. We blink at each other. I try not to think how his eyes are almost the same color as my dad’s—murky green lagoons of promised quiet coolness.
I’d never seen this man before he took me, but I had seen the look on his face. I just started my first job last week at my neighbor’s taco truck. My parents weren’t happy about it, but they agreed to let me start saving up for my senior class trip to Quebec. I’d only worked two shifts before I was drugged and brought here, but the expression on his face is one I know now. It’s the same look a person gets when staring at a menu and trying to figure out what to order.
He knows he can have anything. It’s his menu. All he has to do is figure out what he wants. At this thought, I realize what he’s waiting for. He already gave me an order.
I push myself onto my knees, stopping my lip from quivering with my teeth. He just continues to stare, with no undulations in those lagoons. I have to reach back for the bars to brace myself as I stand up. Holding on to the little hope I have that if I stay calm he’ll stay calm, I try to match his coldness.
“Good. The game today, Larissa, is called pick your poison.” He starts to undo his belt. Leather whips past denim with an unhurried pull. He doesn’t take his eyes off me, continuing in a quiet, even voice.
“I’m going to hurt you.” He says it without any inflection—slowly, like I need to memorize every syllable.
My trembling gets worse as his words find their way into my fear-fogged brain. A dry sob starts somewhere in my middle. My hands clutch harder to the bars behind me, and my head does something wild—a shake, a slam—while I can only mouth, “No, no, nonono.”
“Listen.” His sharp yell stops me. Just my mouth continues like a fish with my harsh breathing, but no words can come out. “Good. I’m only going to tell you how this works once, so you better be listening. Are you?” I nod my head feverishly. “Good, Larissa.”
He takes one step towards me, and I push myself harder against the bars, whimpering. “I’m going to hurt your pretty little ass.” He squints and taps his front teeth together behind closed lips, making me think his bite will be worse than his bark. “I’m going to let you decide how.”
subject to revision, release date: Oct 7th 2021
“Get up.” He sounds close; his voice is low and full of idling command. Still, I roll over slowly. I have time; he didn’t open the cage door yet. The heavy metal scrapes against the concrete when it moves.
I have a false sense of security, being locked in here with him out there. I know it’s false because he’s going to come in. He has every day for four days now.
His voice deepens. “I won’t repeat myself, Larissa. You have one chance to obey me.” With the memory of yesterday still fresh, I sniffle and move.
His use of my name makes me cringe; I don’t know his. He seems to know a lot about me. He told me as much when I woke up in this cage. To prove his point, he said I must hate that my bedroom is still painted in shades of pink from when I was a kid because he knows my favorite color is green. He smiled telling me how sweet he thought it was that I laugh at stupid jokes but think spoof movies are horrible. He even managed to somehow look wistful when he said he agrees with me about classic lit—that it shouldn’t be boiled down to a Cliff Notes version for the unromantic.
I threw up in response. It was all true and horrifying to hear from a complete stranger.
Pulling myself up off the mattress on the floor, I sniffle more to stop new tears. I’ve done nothing but cry for four days. It’s more than I’ve cried my whole life. I’m not exactly known for my outbursts of emotions, even when I’m not so numb with terror that I can’t think straight. But thinking and crying are all I can do in this cage, and I’ve done a lot of both already.
It terrifies me that I don’t know anything about him, except that he must be sick. Only a sicko would take an eighteen-year-old girl from her backyard and toss her in a cage, right?
I don’t even know why he took me. He’s hardly talked to me since letting me know that he knows more about me than he should. He won’t answer any of my questions about what it is that he wants. He’s mostly just watched me, eerily silent, while I’ve tried to keep down tiny bites of the simple food he’s brought for me.
It’s given me plenty of time to think. I’ve not thought of anything constructive yet, but the numbness is starting to wear off. My terror is churning into a frustrated anger. It’s as useless to me as being numb with fear, but it’s something different at least.
On unsteady feet, I blink into the light behind him and suck in my breath fast. He seems taller this morning, like a genie that can grow at will to any size. And he’s shirtless. I’m trembling before I can even gather another breath. What new horror does he have in mind today?
As slowly as he moves forward, my feet move backwards. As he reaches the bars to this cage, I hit the ones to my back. As he unlocks the door, my hands come up. “Please…please…” The words stutter out of me. Fear steals my control and locks me in a perpetual repeat. “Please...”
“Stop, Larissa.” It’s a quick, graveled command.
Sucking my lips back, dry over my teeth, I try to reel in my fear. I’m panting with the effort, sweat dripping into my eyes. I try to think of something, anything beyond the black hole of terror that threatens to pinch my vision. I think about the sound the cage door makes when opening and imagine that it stays that way, that he’d let me just walk out of here soon. That sounds nice. Please, please…
“Good.”
The door closes, but he doesn’t bother locking it behind him. He knows that I know I can’t get away. That was the lesson yesterday. We played what he called “chicken on the run.” He let me try to get past him, try to make it to the door before him. He even sort of laughed when he left the key in the lock. I’m beat up all over from him grabbing and pulling me. My skin crawls at just the memory—the feel of his hands and arms on me.
Still, he was almost silent through it all, hardly reacting as I vacillated between screaming anger and pleading misery. I got more out of him when I was in shock and only able to ask questions in a pseudo-calm numbness on the first full day I was in here.
That might be the key to getting through to him—staying calm. It gives me some hope at least. I can be calm; I can squash my feelings. I do it all the time. I always have.
My breath is loud and hot through my open mouth. I tremble. The bars don’t move, and the bony points to me become numb with impact. Numb is good. Numb helps in staying calm.
“You pass out on me, and I’ll just wait until you wake up. Get control of your breathing.”
But I can’t. I was wrong. All of my past means of controlling my feelings fail me. Again. I erupt in sobs and clutch my waist. Bending over, I fall to the floor on my knees, my hands reaching out to catch myself. I retch, my empty stomach only hurting more without relief. I’ve barely had sips of water for almost two days. I thought he’d say something if I stopped eating, and my stomach wasn’t holding anything in anyway. He only kept his silence, not seeming to care what I did or didn’t do so long as I obeyed a direct order.
He quietly watches me, coldly waiting until I have nothing left. Tears won’t even keep me company in here for long anymore.
I finally look up through my dark blonde hair dangling in my face. My arms burn from holding myself up. We blink at each other. I try not to think how his eyes are almost the same color as my dad’s—murky green lagoons of promised quiet coolness.
I’d never seen this man before he took me, but I had seen the look on his face. I just started my first job last week at my neighbor’s taco truck. My parents weren’t happy about it, but they agreed to let me start saving up for my senior class trip to Quebec. I’d only worked two shifts before I was drugged and brought here, but the expression on his face is one I know now. It’s the same look a person gets when staring at a menu and trying to figure out what to order.
He knows he can have anything. It’s his menu. All he has to do is figure out what he wants. At this thought, I realize what he’s waiting for. He already gave me an order.
I push myself onto my knees, stopping my lip from quivering with my teeth. He just continues to stare, with no undulations in those lagoons. I have to reach back for the bars to brace myself as I stand up. Holding on to the little hope I have that if I stay calm he’ll stay calm, I try to match his coldness.
“Good. The game today, Larissa, is called pick your poison.” He starts to undo his belt. Leather whips past denim with an unhurried pull. He doesn’t take his eyes off me, continuing in a quiet, even voice.
“I’m going to hurt you.” He says it without any inflection—slowly, like I need to memorize every syllable.
My trembling gets worse as his words find their way into my fear-fogged brain. A dry sob starts somewhere in my middle. My hands clutch harder to the bars behind me, and my head does something wild—a shake, a slam—while I can only mouth, “No, no, nonono.”
“Listen.” His sharp yell stops me. Just my mouth continues like a fish with my harsh breathing, but no words can come out. “Good. I’m only going to tell you how this works once, so you better be listening. Are you?” I nod my head feverishly. “Good, Larissa.”
He takes one step towards me, and I push myself harder against the bars, whimpering. “I’m going to hurt your pretty little ass.” He squints and taps his front teeth together behind closed lips, making me think his bite will be worse than his bark. “I’m going to let you decide how.”
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