Hellena
It's getting worse again. My life. Or whatever is left of it.
I stared at the painted ceiling for more than twelve hours. The patience with which I counted every minute and every second would drive even Van Gogh crazy. You get the hint.
I wasted my voice, screaming in the hope that anyone who hears me will be pissed off enough to let me go.
I don't know who I'm trying to fool. I have reached another world. One my father tried so hard to bury for years. And now I am its prisoner.
I look down at my hands, covered in blood. It wasn't a good idea to slam the door with my bare hands. But I don't like anything that restricts my freedom. Although I should have been used to it after the way my father treated me over the years.
As soon as I hear footsteps in the hallway, I jump to my feet, my body sinking onto the mattress. The migraine I woke up with last night, after I was brought here, is still there, and it's morning already.
My gaze wanders around. The bars on the windows begin to suffocate me. Although I am afraid of heights, I never thought that I would one day start suffering from claustrophobia. And to be honest, starting it now is not a great idea.
The sun's rays enter the bedroom uninvited, making my head even heavier.
As the footsteps are approaching, I hear the jingling of keys. The door unlocks and the doorknob moves. I jump to my feet, ready to defend myself if necessary. But my arms fall to my sides as soon as I make eye contact with the person in front of me.
"Rafael?"
My voice cracks. What kind of sick joke is this?
Rafael.
That Rafael.
Sofia's cousin, Rafael.
The one I was supposed to date last night.
My eyes widen as I watch him take another step into the room, closing the door behind him. He is holding a brown paper bag in his left hand with the logo of my favorite Italian restaurant.
And although I am thinking of throwing the food at him, my stomach starts to protest after the hours I haven't eaten.
"Hi, Hellena. I thought you were hungry. I don't know what you like, but I remember Sofia talking about this restaurant as being your favorite," Rafael says, his voice calm and collected.
I try to swallow the lump in my throat. The muscles of my body contract, making me feel even more restless, and my mind begins to formulate dozens of questions.
I don't know what's worse: to be surrounded by strangers or to have someone so well-known involved in all this mess.
"Rafael, what are you doing here? Why am I here? Where are we? Cazzo! Help me get out of here, quick!"
I speak fast, so fast that my words don't even make sense. I try to take a few hurried steps towards him, but he avoids me. He drops the bag on the floor and rushes back to the door. And all of a sudden, I understand.
He isn't here to help.
He's on their side.
"I'm sorry, Hellena. I don't know what to tell you, but Patrón will give you all the answers you need. Just eat and try to rest," Rafael whispers before walking out the door and locking it.
"What? You're sorry?! What the fuck, Rafael! Who are these people?" I try to send all the words through the locked door.
But that's it. End of conversation.
I drop to the floor and unpack the bag he left behind. I hate the feeling of hunger, and that's why I didn't plan on starving myself while I was here.
It would be a stupid idea. Especially since I can already smell the fresh focaccia.
As I satisfy my hunger, still lying on the floor, I struggle to come up with a plan, but I can't find one. It's useless to fight them. I don't know who I'm dealing with, but I know one thing for sure: they're bad people. The kind of people who shoot each other.
A thought crosses my mind as I bite into my mozzarella sandwich again. One of them seemed to be defending me. He jumped in front of the gun to protect me. And got shot. And the other one, the one who brought me here, didn't seem malicious at all.
On the contrary, he seemed to detest this situation as much as I do.
I wonder who are these people. And if they're as bad as they seem, why did they force me to stay locked in such a beautiful bedroom? Shouldn't I be thrown into a dank and scary basement? This room is three times bigger than my bedroom.
Everything is white. The walls, the furniture. Even the bed is immaculate. Except for the ceiling, which is painted to give the idea of abstractness.
I try to look beyond the idea of the one who made it. It somehow reminds me of the Pacific.
When I was a child, my father used to take me and my mother on cruises to see the Pacific Ocean. Something in this painting reminds me of one of the sunrises I saw back then.
A storm was forecasted that morning. Not long after, the red code was announced, and we had to return to shore. And yet, I found that sunrise the most memorable. The black clouds mingled with the bright morning rays, the same way as the black shadows mixed with the reddish flames drawn on the ceiling.
After finishing my meal, I return to bed. Now that my hunger is sated, all I need is a shower.
I glance at the bathroom door, unsure if I should risk using it. Anyone could enter at any moment, and being found naked in there would only add to my woes. There's no lock on the door, and I'd rather not dwell on why that is.
I turn my gaze to the window, where the metal bars gleam under the scorching sun. I'm locked in a cage. How poetic.
After a while, bored and perhaps attempting to provoke some action, I approach the door again, trying the handle, but it remains stubbornly locked. My fists pound against it a few times, hoping for a change.
Amidst my futile attempts, I start to hear hushed voices not too far from the door.
"Can I get a pill, a pain reliever, anything? I have a terrible migraine. And do something about the air conditioning! I feel like I'm getting baked in here."
I bite my lip, trying to suppress a triumphant smile as the voices abruptly stop. It seems I've been heard.
Returning to bed, I let my head sink into the pillow, which is far too comfortable. Everything in this room exudes coziness and warmth. I could almost get used to this place.
Except for the oppressive heat. Even at nine in the morning, the sun shows no mercy.
I hear the jingle of keys again, and the door opens. This time, I'm met by the face of the man who brought me here. I can't help but stare at him. He's dressed far too sharply in a fitted olive-green shirt and a pair of black pinstripe trousers. His sleeves are rolled up, revealing a couple of black and silver bracelets on both wrists.
He regards me with obvious curiosity but says nothing. Placing a first aid kit on the small table to the left of the room, he turns to leave.
"Why am I here?" I shout after him, making him pause in his tracks.
He glances over his shoulder at me, contemplating whether to respond.
"I don't know. But I'm also very curious to find out."
His voice carried neither threat nor friendliness, just annoyance. It seemed directed at my mere presence, which struck me as absurd. I certainly didn't ask to be here.
As the door closes behind him, I hear the distinct click of the lock. Cold shivers run down my skin out of nowhere. The air conditioner is working again. Unable to contain my smile, I approach the door and press my ear against it. I feel compelled to say something. This time, there's no sound.
"Thanks!" I shout, my ear still pressed against the door.
An irritated snort echoes from the other side, barely audible in the muffled silence. I continue to smile. But when I recognize the voice softly whispering, "You're welcome," my heart skips a beat.
A lump forms in my throat.
It's Rafael. Is he standing right beside this door?
"Rafael?" I yell again.
Silence. It's him, I'm sure.
"Let me go! I'm begging you! Rafael, please! Let me out!"
I remain silent, just listening. The absence of response feels deafening. I know he can hear me. He's just too much of a jerk to answer.
"I don't know what you fuckers want from me, but I'm sure you're not going to get it!"
I pound the door again, wincing as my flesh is crushed. I hit it with my foot, then again, and again. I continue until I collapse on the floor, exhausted. My palms and knees are covered in blood again, thin reddish streaks running down my skin, but I couldn't care less.
I'm too tired to care. I can't even think about what to do. Maybe I should wait.
Wait for what? Nobody knows where I am. No one will try to save me.
Dad is gone. And as far as I can tell, things are pretty messed up on his end. I doubt he would risk his life to save his daughter.
A daughter he doesn't even want.