by Mason, V. F.
The sun barely streams past the metal bars blocking the window right above me and I blink at it, wondering if anything major has changed in the world in the last two years. That’s how long he’s held me captive in this place, demanding things I won’t ever give him.
I hear screams in the hallway, and flesh being hit, but mostly the screams of newcomers, which is usually accompanied with begging. “Please let me go. I’m not crazy. I’m not,” some man pleads, but they only laugh, because they hold the power. A fact they like to remind me of often, especially when I don’t comply with their orders.
I cover my ears, hoping to evade the sound, and hum loudly, still rocking even though my knees hurt so much from staying in the same position for hours.
But it’s better than succumbing to his sadistic desires.
I don’t have to glance up to know about the camera tracking my every move and sending reports to Elijah on my well-being—or rather, my behavior.
The loud thumping on the door startles me when Kevin, the head guard in this psychiatric establishment, barks, “Shut up, Emerald. Or I’ll come in there and do it myself.”
I scoot up on the bed, pressing my back into the headboard as fear rushes through me.
“No needles,” I whisper, rubbing my hands and arms covered in bruises and dark holes from their acts of deception. “No needles.” They usually do something awful like sedate me and then I have no idea what happens, other than they like to hurt me in places where Elijah won’t see.
I place my hand on my side, above my kidney, and whimper when I remember their firm kick there and the laughter, because finding a hopeless woman on the floor pleases them.
I roll my lips inside, biting on the flesh, and scrunch my eyes, afraid he’ll come in anyway, but after a minute, nothing happens, and I exhale in relief.
I pick up the notepad of blank paper and a pencil and decide to draw something beautiful, some memory from my past life, but on their own accord my hands draw only one face that truly matters.
Brochan.
Slowly, he comes alive on the paper as I numbly continue the task, my hands moving automatically until a loud beeping bounces off the walls and the door opens. Elijah enters, holding a belt like always.
I hunch my head down between my shoulders while he comes closer and closer, tsking at me. “I come here three times a week. Three times, Emerald. Is it so hard not to anger me?” he asks, standing in front of me, but I hide my face between my knees, his voice breaking my skin out in goose bumps.
“No,” I whisper back, but it doesn’t satisfy him enough.
Nothing I say is ever satisfying enough.
He throws the notepad to the side, fists my hair in his hand, and pulls me up while I whimper. “I had such a good day today. I admitted so many new patients, and you have been frozen in the same pose for hours. I wanted to reward you with food even though you get it only four times a week.” He angrily throws me on the floor where I land painfully, and then it comes… the first hit of the belt buckle to my middle, and I stifle the groan of pain, because he hates it. “But you couldn’t resist drawing him, could you?” Another hit, this time to my back, and I groan, biting on my hands, as the agonizing hurt rushes through me. But still, he continues to hit.
One, two, three more times before he takes a break and continues his tirade. “You ungrateful little whore.” He kneels next to me and then wraps the leather around my neck, squeezing it tightly, and for a moment, I can’t breathe. I don’t fight him—I never do.
I did for the first year here, but then he became more frantic with his punishments, and I prefer less than more. Even if it makes me weak.
He lets go, and as I gulp air, he tenderly runs his fingers over my skin, murmuring while I tamp down the desire to barf all over him. “You are mine, Emerald. So beautiful. You need to surrender to me, kitten.” He drags me up again, and I can barely stand on my wobbling legs, but he presses my back to his front and points at the huge mirror a few feet away from us. “See this? Say the words.” I shake my head, licking away the blood from my lips, but he tugs on my hair, practically pulling the strands from my head. “Say it or I won’t be so patient to wait anymore.”
I still, because that’s the only threat he always holds over my head.
Elijah is a sadistic psychopath who gets off on hurting me, seeing blood and bruises on me while I’m completely helpless in his kingdom.
But one thing he wants from me willingly is sex. He thinks with time he can break me enough that I’ll beg for it. That’s why he limits food and water more and more, and why they don’t even let me go to the bathroom as often as I might need, driving me insane with the lack of basic necessities until I can’t take it anymore. He removed the toilet from my room one year ago.
He can harm my body, but he’ll never get my surrender. That’s the only thing that still belongs to me. I might be broken, but he doesn’t get to have my soul too.
With a raspy voice and a sore throat, I say, “Who is the best man for me among them all?”
He grins widely and pats my head, his hold instantly turning gentle. “See, this is not hard. I’m the man you need, and the minute you accept it, this nightmare will be over.”
“I won’t ever accept it.” I make the words barely audible, not being able to bear his gloating, but he hears me.
I know it, because he pushes me back on the floor, saying, “You will learn to appreciate me.” And he continues to hit me with the belt for several minutes, until I lie spent on the floor.
Then he leaves, and I finally close my eyes, welcoming the nightmare.
Because dreams do not exist in this world.
New York, New York
September 2012
The door opens and I hide my notepad under the bed, although it’s useless anyway. He digs everywhere to find things for which he can punish me even more.
But instead of Elijah, the guard throws another girl in my room. She has brown hair and a torn white dress; her body shakes with tremors. “Stay put, you piece of shit.” Without any other explanation, he closes the door and leaves us alone.
I rush to her, gently touching her back, but she immediately jumps, hitting me in the chin. “Don’t touch me,” she cries out, and I step back, holding my face, but then her eyes clear, and she comes closer to me, lifting my chin. “You’re hurt too,” she whispers, and then hugs me so tight tears form in my eyes.
No one has given me a gentle touch in the last three years; all I’ve gotten was pushing, slaps, and more beatings.
She leans back, and then I notice the wildness in her eyes as she darts her gaze all over the place. “Bad man. He’s a bad man,” she repeats, pacing the room, hiking her dress, and tugging on her hair. “Bad, bad man who likes to touch me when I say no.” She mutters something else and then gets on the bed, hiding under the covers, while the bed shakes from her tremors.
I sit on the edge of the bed, wondering aloud, “Who?”
I don’t expect her to answer, but she peeks out of the blanket, murmuring, “Bad, bad man. He comes at night and does bad stuff.”
Mortification runs through me at what she describes, but more importantly in the way she does it, like a child who is scared. But she looks to be around my age or just a few years younger.
“He only comes at night?” I ask, and she peeks again, nodding.
But then she whispers, “He is with Mommy during the day.”
Oh my God.
Her own father rapes her?
Without thinking, I lift the blanket higher and then get on the bed, squashing her between the wall and the edge of the bed, in a way protecting her from what’s to come.
I suspect the trauma happened a long time ago; pedophiles do not touch their grown children, because only small bodies interest them. That being said, if she’s here, it means they also admitted her to this place.
Shortly, she stops trembling and I hear light snoring. She sleeps while I try to make sense of her being here. Why would they
bring her here to me?
* * *
I wake up from the rusty lock being turned, and then in walks Elijah, and judging by his entrance, which is casual, it means he’s in a good mood.
And that in turn means he’ll only start beating me when I refuse being with him, not before that. A few little bruises for me. “Kitten,” he murmurs, coming closer, but I shift on the bed, blocking him from touching the girl.
His brow furrows, but then a grin spreads across his face, and he nods approvingly. “Yes, you protect those in need. That’s why you’ll be a good mother to our children.” I stay silent, because arguing with delusional ideas is pointless. I can’t believe he still thinks I’ll ever surrender to him, considering the hell I’ve experienced at his hands and still never said yes. “Do you like my present?”
“Present?” I repeat hollowly, dread settling in my stomach, hoping he won’t say the words I suspect.
But of course he does. “Yes, Amalia. Isn’t she pretty? She can be your friend.”
“My friend,” I repeat once again, and that’s when I remember how he came to the conclusion I’m so unhappy all the time because I don’t have anyone to talk to.
He brought an innocent girl here just so she could entertain me? “Yes, she’s a bit wild, but she occupied the room down the hall.”
Crying.
Whenever we passed that room for doctor visits or when they took me to shower, as Elijah can’t stand the sight of my dry blood, I always heard crying in the room. Soft whimpers that brought aching to my heart. “She’s seventeen. Her parents left her here when she was fourteen.”
“Why?”
He waves his hand at her. “She told her mother that her stepfather raped her. She was afraid for her sibling, you see. Of course, no one believed her and they put her here, under my supervision.”
Poor, poor soul. Her family delivered her such a blow, but she survived, keeps surviving. “If you’d like someone else—”
“No!” I quickly say. This girl has no one in this world, just like me. Nothing can soothe the ache in my heart knowing everyone I loved is gone.
Including Nona—that’s what Elijah told me at least. But this little soul has a chance to survive. Maybe if someday someone comes to rescue us from here, she’ll have a shot at a good life.
I’ve tried running away many times, but they always catch me, so I gave up.
I don’t want her to ever give up.
Elijah nods approvingly and is about to leave when he glances to the bed, and I freeze, because the movement of the mattress pushed the notepad out and now the drawing of Brochan is easy for him to see. “Still thinking about him?” he asks, and then slaps my cheek so hard I fall on the floor, and then he grabs the pad and throws it across the room.
The girl wakes up, whimpering as she sits up, but I shake my head at her. She needs to stay put so Elijah won’t lash out at her too. “Year after year, you draw him as though he’ll come back and save you. He’s dead. Do you hear me? Dead!” he screams. I cover my head with my arms when he kicks me, keeping the position, because it’s the safest for me in this situation.
Then he kneels next to me, and orders, “Sit up.” I shake my head, but he pulls me by my hair, and I have no choice but to listen. He wraps his hands around my fingers, and asks, “Is this the hand you draw him with? The hand that brings me so much pain. Intentionally!” he shouts at my face, and I’ve had enough.
I can apologize for everything, but never for my love for Brochan. This would mean I regretted him and betrayed him.
So even though it’s not wise, I lift my chin and meet the stare of a madman head on. “Yes. I love Brochan. I’ll always love only Brochan,” I reply. Something dark crosses his face, and inwardly I weep knowing full well this will unleash the beast. I’ve never before shouted such words at him.
“Very well,” he says, and then both his hands clasp over mine. He wraps his fingers around my middle three and, with one move, breaks them, the crunch echoing in the room along with my terrified scream. He covers my mouth with his hand, while tears stream down my face. He seethes, “How are you going to draw him without them now? There will be no doctor. Let it fester, and then they’ll cut them off. Brochan will live only in your imagination now.” A loud alarm erupts all through the building, and Elijah mutters, “What the fuck?” He rushes out, leaving the door wide open.
Despite the piercing hurt zipping through my entire body, I get up and shake the girl on the bed. She peeks from the blanket once again, and I rasp, “Let’s go.” Something is going wrong, and it’s our chance, maybe the only chance we’ll ever get again. And it might be stupid, but I’d rather receive another punishment than not use this opportunity.
Stifling a moan of pain, I allow her to quickly stand next to me, and tell her, “Let’s run to the left.” I know there’s a door leading to the staircases, and rarely anyone goes there, because the guards always come from the right.
We do and run as fast as possible while the alarm still sounds. But in truth, we barely move, our muscles so used to spending time in the cramped spaces we hardly have any strength. “Come on, girl,” I mutter to her, pulling her by the hand while we both breathe heavily. “Amalia.” I push her to the staircase, and we quickly descend, but she stumbles and rolls down them. “No!” I shout and drop next to her. She groans, touching her head, but that’s when the energy changes around us and her eyes widen when she looks behind me.
I hold back the sobs that are about to erupt, because we lost once again, even if this was hopeless all along. I don’t want to turn and face the inevitable, but the heavy footsteps indicate it’s not one man, but three of them. I learned to distinguish sounds in my years of captivity.
I get up, wincing from the pain traveling from my fingers to my arm and head, and spin around to face the nightmare.
Only instead, there stands a man I do not recognize. He wears a three-piece suit and his crystal blue eyes are so cold, yet they remind me of Brochan so much.
He’s probably one of their clients who came here to admit someone, or just came to the center, judging by the metal cane I see in his hand. Behind him, two men stand, one dark-haired and the other with blue hair. They exchange looks, but my focus is only on the suited guy. I walk slowly to him, and whisper, “Please.” And then exhaustion overwhelms me and I fall, but his arms quickly catch me and then everything goes blank.
* * *
The beeping sound grates on my mind and I shake my head, trying to evade it, but it continues regardless. Finally, my eyelids flutter open only to meet bright sunlight streaming from the huge window, and it takes me a moment to realize I’m in the hospital.
Various wires are attached to me and the heart rate monitor beats rather violently. I’m alone in the room. It looks expensive and even has a flat-screen TV in front of me.
The nurse rushes inside, quickly starts to check my stats, and presses the button. It’s only seconds before a doctor walks in and sighs in relief. “You woke up.” He smiles at me, leaning over, and then softly touches my forehead. “Bruises are healing nicely.” I lift my hand and see it has a bandage over it, and I raise my head at him, silently asking a question. “You were in a car accident.”
“I don’t remember anything.” Maybe that’s why I stay so calm with all this. While I understand everything around me like names and my situation, when I rack my mind for some memories, they don’t come. “Did I hit my head?” My body sure feels sore. God, how do people live with such discomfort anyway?
The nurse shakes her head and opens her mouth to say something, but a deep, authority-laced voice speaks. “Yes. Head trauma.” The man comes into view, and I blink at the suit guy, but I don’t recognize him. “Who are you?” I ask, hating that I’m a clueless idiot here.
Silence passes, and finally he replies, “My name is Kaden Lachlan Scott. I’m your brother.” And in some weird way, those words bring me peace.
Chapter Twenty-Four
New York, New York
<
br /> Micaden, 26 years old
Standing in front of the oak table, I slide my fingers over various knives, but none of them please me. They aren’t sharp enough, painful enough, or ugly enough.
Call me a spoiled brat, but I don’t want to use a beautiful blade on the piece of shit currently thrashing on the surgical table behind me.
Then my eyes fall on the pliers, and I insert a finger between them, carefully squeezing enough to nip my skin and immediately draw blood. The corner of my mouth lifts when I imagine what it could do with proper use.
I place it on the left, with the gasoline, stones, blades, and gun. I carefully chose these weapons for this torture. I step back and quickly wash my hands before wiping them off and putting on latex gloves.
I glance up at the two-way mirror, knowing Arson and Isabella are watching me, taking notes to make sure I’ve done everything right.
This is my final test before I can freely use all the knowledge I acquired without ending up on Lachlan’s shit list. I don’t have much information on the victim; I never care, to be honest. In the last two years, Arson’s taught me everything there is about the craft, even went so far as to dump tons of books on me, because in his mind, theory is everything.
But then, so is experience.
Arson’s victims stayed alive for hours, struggling in pain while he carefully watched before burning them at the end. He always had this calm expression about him that I’ve often wondered if he was even present during his tortures. But this is not something you question a serial killer on. Besides, he wasn’t thrilled when Lachlan assigned me to him for him to show me that everyday, giving me such fucking hard training. I always prayed thanks to God for Fox. If it weren’t for his teachings, I would have died from Arson’s regime a long time ago.
The victim has been in this position, sort of ready for me, so I don’t have a choice. But then I catch sight of a notepad and freeze, reading the name.
