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I keep mouthing the word please as if that will make any difference. Micah needs to come for me; I’ll die otherwise. However, I know he won’t. He won’t find me here because, even with his tracking skills, this cave is too well-hidden.

I start to numb my senses, disregarding my wet hair and soaked clothes. My vision blends into the darkness, but my mind is solely focused on the thought that Micah might be with her. It’s a painfully vivid image, one I’ve unfortunately witnessed before.

I let out one more sob before my eyes close from utter exhaustion, resting my head against the cold stone wall. “Micah, where are you? Please find me.” Even after all I’ve been through, saying his name comforts me, and begging is natural at this point.

At least an hour goes by, then another. I refuse to sleep, worried I might never wake up if I do. Eventually, the laughter returns, low at first but there all the same. I begin to pull my hair, willing it to stop, knowing this is a sign of my growing insanity. I pull it hard, then start to scratch my arm, digging my fingers into my flesh to keep myself awake. I only manage to stay alert by observing how my breath seems to slither and shine as if frozen in the moonlight peeking through the clouds. I shift my gaze upward, and my heart stops when a flash of green blooms from the dark inky sky above me and dances through the night.

The laughter eases, and my mouth momentarily gapes. Tears sting my eyes as I remember that fateful first night I spent with Maison, and I’m able to stall my descent into delirium and calm my painful breathing by focusing on that memory.

Hope. A sign. My lifeline.

The whispers ebb and flow, and time seems to stand still. I’m not asleep, though I’m certainly not awake. My stomach is like liquid clay, and the pain is excruciating.

I close my eyes and sway back and forth. I wish Maison would come to me as he did the last time I was held captive like this.

When Micah held me captive.

Maison doesn’t appear… but the laughter returns.

Nigel’s laugh… and it takes me a few seconds to realize I am not actually hallucinating.

“What the fuck do you want, Nigel?” I ask him, feeling his evil presence lingering above. He’s alone. “Where’s Ezra?”

He clicks his tongue. “Ezra doesn’t trust you, London.”

I scoff, the sound echoing over the rocks, my feeble attempt at hiding the cracks in my spirit. He’s breaking me. “Just kill me, Nigel. I know you want to.”

Anything is better than staying here like this.

“Oh, I plan to. I’m going to starve you, London. But before I’m done with you, you will feel true hunger, and you’ll know what it was like for the rest of us this winter while you hid in your glamorous life.”

I shudder at the thought. He would do that, too. His hatred for me, as unwarranted as it is, runs deep. Our emotions are so heightened that his true self shines through, as it does for all of us.

Who am I when stripped to the bare minimum?

I haven’t stopped to think about that. My existential crisis is short-lived when Nigel kicks rocks down on my head. I bite the inside of my cheek and place my arms above my head to stop them from cracking my skull.

“You had the same amount of food as we did,” I remind him, happy I still have some sense of wit. “So, what’s the real reason why you’re doing this?”

He snickers and kicks one more large rock, barely missing my head. “Because I can, London. Do I need any more reasons than that?”

He finally stops and chuckles to himself, and I let him humiliate me, not even trying to move.

A few agonizing seconds go by before I finally say, “Where have you been hiding, Nigel? Aren’t you tired of your miserable existence yet?” I’m egging him on, but I have nothing left, and me egging him on makes him weak. He’s emotional, just like me, and he usually gives me information when I push him. The astute journalist is just as stupid as I am. I’ve outwitted him several times on this island. I just need to stay strong.

“You’re fucking looking at it.” He takes a heavy breath. “Have you ever seen someone die of dehydration?” he muses as if he is looking at the dancing lights above us, too.

He pauses as if I am actually going to answer him.

“Your blood will thicken. Your organs will shut down one by one. You’ll shit yourself and hallucinate. I’ve heard dying of thirst is a terrible way to die. Even your brain cells will start to shrink. Your stomach will eat itself, and your veins will dry up.”

I wonder if that is why he is the way he is. His brain cells have morphed so much that he has become a shell of who he once was. That’s why he has become a predator, a murderer—utterly psychotic.

“Nighty night, London.”

Psycho. He’s lost his damn mind.

I sit stiff as a board, my back pressed against the rock, hoping that he somehow falls into one of these pits on his way back to whatever dreadful hole he calls home. I let out an uncontrollable sob when he finally shuffles away.