Sempre (Forever)

by JM Darhower

  “Sore,” she admitted. “My head hurts.”

  “I'm not surprised.” He knelt down and reached toward her, the movement making her flinch. “I'm not going to hit you, child.”

  He felt her forehead and grasped her chin, surveying her face. “Do you know who I am?” She shook her head, although something about him struck her as vaguely familiar. She thought she might’ve seen him from a distance before, one of the visitors they were kept away from over the years. “My name’s Dr. Vincent DeMarco.”

  “Doctor?” They'd never gotten medical attention before, even for the severest of problems.

  “Yes, I’m a doctor,” he said, “but I also happen to be an associate of the Antonelli’s. I arrived after they discovered you were missing. You suffered a minor concussion, and you're dehydrated, but there's no permanent damage that I can see. You're lucky you were found when you were. You could've died out there.”

  A sinking feeling settled into the pit of her stomach, a small part of her wishing she would have. It had to be better than being killed at the hands of a monster.

  Dr. DeMarco looked at his watch. “Do you think you can walk? We should leave soon.”

  “We?”

  “Yes, you're going to be staying with me now.”

  She shook her head, cringing as the pain intensified. “But I can't leave my mama. She needs me!”

  “Maybe you should've thought about that before you ran away.”

  She tried to explain, her words sluggish. “I did! They were going to kill me. I didn’t have a choice.”

  “You always have a choice, child.”

  “No, I don't.”

  “Yes, you do,” he said. “In fact, you have one right now.”

  “You're giving me a choice?”

  “Of course I am. You can stand and come with me.”

  “Or?”

  He shrugged. “Or you stay where you are, and I’ll leave without you. But before you decide, tell me something. You ran away because you thought they were going to kill you. What do you think they'll do to you now?”

  She stared at her dirt-caked feet. “So I either go with you, or I die? What kind of choice is that?”

  “One I suppose you won't like making,” he said, “but it is a choice, nonetheless.”

  Tense silence lingered between them. Haven didn't like this man. He was manipulating her. “What do you want me for?” She was used to being punished for speaking out of turn, but she had nothing to lose. What could he do, kill her? Get in line, mister.

  “I never said I wanted you. I’m a busy man, though, so I can use someone to cook and clean.”

  “You can't pay someone?” She regretted the question immediately and started backtracking. “At least it would be legal then. I think this is illegal. Isn't it?”

  Truthfully, she wasn't sure.

  “Yes, I suppose it technically is, but—”

  Before he could finish, shouts rang out above them in the house. Haven flinched at the loud thump, tears stinging her eyes when she realized Master Michael was hurting Miss Clara.

  Dr. DeMarco sighed. “Look, I'm not going to stand around all night, waiting. If you don't want my help, so be it. Stay here and die for all I care.”

  Haven climbed to her feet, muttering, “Why me?” She wanted to believe there was a point to it all, but she wasn't sure anymore.

  He gave a slight shake of the head. ”I wish I knew.”

  The soles of Haven’s feet burned as Dr. DeMarco led her out of the basement. “I'm not chasing you if you run,” he said. Her eyes darted to his gun, and he laughed dryly. “I'm not going to shoot you, either.”

  “You're not?”

  “No,” he said. “I'll shoot your mother instead.”

  She gasped as he let go of her arm. “Please don't hurt her!”

  “Stay where you are and I won't have to,” he said, walking away. “I'll be back.”

  Although her legs were weak and she felt dizzy, Haven refused to move even an inch as he disappeared inside the house. The sky glowed bright orange as the sun dipped below the horizon, casting distorted shadows along the desert ground in front of her. She didn't know what day it was, no clue as to how much time had passed.

  She scanned what she could see of the property, searching for some sign of her mama. She wanted to call out to her, to find her. She wanted to ask what she was supposed to do.

  But her mama never appeared. The sun disappeared, and out of the darkness came Dr. DeMarco once again. He didn’t look at her as he opened a door to a black car. “Time to go.”

  Timidly, Haven slid into the stiff passenger seat. He slammed the car door as she looked around. The harsh stench of fresh leather in the confined space made her feel like a weight was pressing on her chest. She had trouble breathing, struggling to stay calm when he climbed into the car beside her. Dr. DeMarco frowned as he reached into the backseat for his black bag. He pulled out another needle and stuck her without a word.

  Blackness came quickly.

  * * * *

  The small road cut through the dense forest, the painted lines so faded it appeared to be built for one. A highway constructed years ago diverted the traffic from the area, so the only people who navigated it were locals and those who lost their way. The grass alongside the road hadn’t been cut in months, the massive trees severely overgrown.

  Haven lay slumped over in the passenger seat, dizzy as she watched the trees whipping past in the darkness. “What time is it?”

  Dr. DeMarco pointed at a clock on the dashboard, the glowing blue numbers indicating it was a quarter after twelve. Midnight, she assumed, since it was so dark. She'd been out for hours.

  “I didn't mean to sedate you for so long,” he said. “I didn’t take into account that you’d never had medication before, so your body’s intolerant. You ended up sleeping through the entire flight.”

  “In an airplane?” It was her first time flying, or even being near a plane, for that matter. She wasn't sure whether to be glad it was over or disappointed she’d missed it. “Where are we now?”

  “Almost home.”

  Home. Haven didn't know what that meant.

  “Before we get there, I want to make something clear,” Dr. DeMarco said. “You're going to have some normalcy living with us but don't mistake my kindness for weakness. I expect your loyalty, and if you betray my trust in any way, there will be consequences. As long as you remember that, we won't have any problems.” He paused. “I want you to be comfortable with us, though, so you can speak freely as long as you're respectful.”

  “I'd never disrespect you, sir.”

  “Never say never. Sometimes we don't realize when we're being disrespectful.” She looked at him, wondering what he meant by that, but he didn't take time to explain. “Now, do you have any questions about anything else?”

  “You said ‘us’. Do you have a family?”

  “Yes, I do. I have two sons, ages seventeen and eighteen.”

  “Oh.” She was on the verge of panicking again. She hadn't been around many people her age before and never had any contact with teenage boys. Glancing at him, she noticed the plain gold band gleaming from his left ring finger. Married? “And your wife, sir? Their mama?”

  The moment the question came from her lips, Dr. DeMarco's demeanor shifted. His posture stiffened and his jaw clenched as he stared straight ahead, his foot pressing harder on the gas pedal. He gripped the steering wheel so tightly his knuckles turned as white as bone, conversation ceasing in an instant.

  So much for speaking freely.

  The car turned off the pavement and drove down a bumpy dirt path that cut through the dense trees. They came to a clearing, and Haven gaped at the house that came into sight. The old plantation home stood three-stories high, with enormous columns spanning the entire height of the structure. The white paint was fading, tinting the house a dull gray color. A large porch wrapped around the first floor, with smaller porches running the length of the second and third.
>
  Dr. DeMarco parked between a smaller black car and a slightly bigger silver one, and Haven stepped out cautiously, taking in her surroundings. All she could see were trees in the darkness, a porch light making the gravel faintly visible beneath her bare feet. Dr. DeMarco grabbed his luggage before heading toward the front door, and she limped behind with empty hands, having nothing of her own to carry. She'd never owned much, all of her clothes ragged hand-me-downs she'd left behind.

  After stepping onto the porch, Dr. DeMarco pressed his finger to a small panel on a rectangular keypad. It beeped before he opened the door. She stepped into the house, pausing as he closed the door and punched some numbers into an identical keypad on the inside.

  A green light flashed as a lock clicked into place, the door automatically securing itself. “Everything’s wired into a computer network, and there are keypads at all the exits,” Dr. DeMarco explained. “It’s for security. The house is impenetrable, the glass bulletproof and windows nailed shut. You either need a code or fingerprint authorization to get in or out.”

  “What happens if there's a power failure, sir?”

  “The system's on a backup generator.”

  “And if the generator doesn't work?”

  “Then I suppose you stay locked inside until power's restored.”

  “Will I have a code?”

  “Maybe someday, if I feel like I can trust you with one,” he said. “After what you pulled in Blackburn, I'm sure you can understand my position. I'm a lot closer to civilization than they were.”

  She couldn't understand his position, refused even to try. “What happens if there's an emergency?”

  “There are always ways around the system, but I don't foresee any situations that would require you to know those tricks.”

  “But what if there's a fire and I need to get out?”

  Dr. DeMarco gazed at her for a moment. “You certainly are a crafty one, aren't you?” Before she could respond, he turned away. “Come on, I'll show you around.”

  Straight in front of them was the family room, with couches and a television on one of the walls. There was a fireplace along the back beside a small piano, the wooden floor shining from the glow of the moon streaming through the large windows. To the left was a kitchen filled with stainless steel appliances, an island in the center with dozens of pots and pans hanging above it. The dining room behind that had the longest table Haven had ever seen, big enough to accommodate at least fourteen people. She wondered how often all of those seats were taken, unable to imagine cooking for that many people. To the right were a bathroom and laundry room, as well as an office tucked underneath the staircase.

  The entire second floor belonged to Dr. DeMarco—a bedroom and bathroom, along with another office and a spare room. Haven noticed some of the doors had keypads beside them, a sign she wouldn't be going into those rooms.

  They continued up to the third floor, the staircase ending in a large open space. A window lined the back wall, beside it a table with two plush gray chairs. The other three walls held doors leading to bedrooms, but the area itself was packed full of tall bookcases. Hundreds of dusty books lined the shelves. Haven stared in shock, having never even dreamed of seeing so many before.

  “I suppose you could call this our library,” Dr. DeMarco said. “It doesn't get much use and I imagine it still won't, considering Antonelli said you couldn't read.”

  Haven could feel his eyes on her, but she stayed quiet and didn’t meet his gaze. A door opened nearby and a boy stepped out from one of the rooms. He was tall and lanky, with shaggy brown hair.

  Dr. DeMarco turned to him. “Dominic, this is, uh… she's going to be staying with us.”

  “Hey there,” Dominic said. “Nice to meet you.”

  “Hello, sir,” she said, her voice shaky.

  His laughter echoed through the room, bouncing off of the bookcases. “Oh, no, that won't do. Call me Dom.”

  She nodded as he headed down the stairs. Dr. DeMarco led her across the room, striding right past the first door without a word and stopping at the second. “This is where you'll sleep. Go in, and I'll be right back.”

  Haven hesitantly stepped inside. The room was entirely white, the furniture, the curtains, and the carpet all plain. Most of the house held the same effect, the walls empty and the rooms uncluttered. There were no pictures and no nick-knacks, nothing that would hold any sentimental value. Nothing to give her any idea of what type of people they were.

  She still stood just inside the door when Dr. DeMarco returned with some clothes. “They'll be big, but at least they're clean.”

  She took them. “Thank you, sir.”

  “You're welcome,” he said. “Get cleaned up and settle in. This is your home now too. You can enter any room that's unlocked except for my sons' bedrooms. You'll need their permission before you go in there.”

  He’d said it again. Home. She'd lived with the Antonelli's her entire life and had never heard it referred to as her home.

  Dr. DeMarco started to walk away but stopped after a few steps. “Oh, and feel free to help yourself to anything in the kitchen if you're hungry, but just don’t try to burn down my house. Doing so won't get you a code any faster. I’ll let you burn to death before I ever let you outsmart me.”

  * * * *

  Haven ran her hand along the fluffy white comforter and smiled. She’d never had a bed before, much less a bedroom of her own. Her nights in Blackburn had been spent in the stables, in a back stall on a worn-down mattress with some of the springs exposed. The temperature was comfortable there at night, so she hadn’t had much use for blankets, one of the ratty, old covers they kept for the horses enough for the occasions it did get chilly. She preferred not to use them, though, because they were itchy on her skin, nothing like the material she now felt against her fingertips.

  After stripping out of her clothes, she went into the connecting bathroom. A large tub sat in the corner with a long counter and a sink across from it, a rectangular mirror above it on the wall.

  Hesitantly, Haven glanced at her reflection. Her cheeks were sunken in, cuts covering her face as a bruise ran along the right side of her jaw. There was blood caked around her hairline from a gash in her forehead, and it was like a layer of dirt had permanently settled on her body.

  None of that was enough to cover her scars, though. There were dozens of them that she could see and even more on her back, constant reminders of what she’d gone through. The bruises faded and sometimes so did the memories, but the scars remained.

  She drew a bath and slid into it, hissing as the steaming hot water came into contact with her skin. She scrubbed every inch of her body raw as tears pooled in her eyes, overwhelmed and unsure about what would come of her. Dr. DeMarco had been decent, but she wasn't fooled by his gentle voice and small tokens of independence. Nothing came without a price. She was still a prisoner, trapped with no way out. While Dr. DeMarco might not have looked like a monster, she wasn't naive enough to believe that one didn’t live inside of him, lurking just under the surface.

  She got out after the water started to cool and found a towel in a small cabinet. It smelled of flowers and was soft against her skin as she wrapped it around her body. Heading back into the bedroom, she grabbed the clothes and slipped on the black flannel pants. They hung limp on her frail form, and she had to roll them up to keep them in place. She grabbed the white t-shirt and unfolded it, noticing the picture of a football on the front. Turning it over, she flinched when she saw the big black number ‘3’ covering the back.

  * * * *

  Time passed slowly as sleep evaded Haven. She huddled under the blanket, trying to find comfort, but the stillness was unnerving. It was too new, too foreign. A prickly sensation crawled across her skin as it felt like the walls were closing in on her, hunger and anxiety taking its toll.

  It was the early-morning hours when it got to be too much. Dr. DeMarco hadn't told her what time to wake up, and in her haze, she'd forgotten to ask.
Worried she'd anger him by staying in bed too long, she quietly slipped downstairs.

  The hallways were dark, but she noticed a subtle glow of light in the kitchen as she approached it. Tiptoeing to the doorway, she peeked inside and saw a boy standing in front of the refrigerator. He was a few inches taller than her, his skin the color of coffee with a lot of extra cream. A few days worth of stubble accented his sharp features, and his thick hair was dark, shorter on the sides than the top. He was fit, with broad shoulders and muscular arms. His gray shirt hugged his chest, the short sleeves shoved up to his shoulders. There was ink on his right arm, a tattoo she couldn't make out in the darkness, and he had on a pair of pants identical to the ones she wore.

  He drank juice from a glass, unaware of her presence, and Haven took a step back to flee. The movement caught his eye, and he turned in her direction, the drink slipping from his hand when he spotted her standing there. It hit the floor and shattered, the spray of liquid soaking his pants.

  Jumping back, he looked down at himself in shock. “Shit!”

  The word sent Haven into a panic, and she darted forward to clean up the mess. He bent down the same moment Haven dove at his feet, and their heads collided. The force knocked him backward, a piece of jagged glass stabbing him when he caught himself on the floor. He cursed again as blood oozed from the gash and stuck his wounded thumb into his mouth. She noticed, as she looked at him, that he had a scar running through his right eyebrow, nearly slicing it in half.

  His gaze lifted, a pair of vibrant green eyes greeting Haven. Intense passion swirled in the color that took her breath away. She broke eye contact, her chest tightening as she snatched some napkins to clean up the juice. Tears streamed down her cheeks as she pushed the glass into a pile, but she was disrupted when his hand grasped her wrist. She yelped at the zap of static electricity, and he blinked rapidly, just as caught off guard.