Chapter Eight

Diana

MY ASSHOLE GUARDIAN did a lot of shit to me, but he never drugged me. In fact, I never even smoked pot, let alone took "downers". My mouth is like a desert, and my eyes take forever to properly open. Even as I open them, the meager light shining in here hurts so bad, I squeeze them shut again. I'm pretty sure my head weighs more than the rest of my body.

Okay, Di. You need to figure out where you are, and to do that, you need to sit up and open your eyes.

I decide maybe sitting up with my eyes closed is the best option, so I do, feeling something thin under me, like a cot cushion. I scoot myself back, hitting something metal.

I was right, though. Sitting up, then opening my eyes quells some of the dizziness I feel. It's what I see that I'm not prepared for.

I'm in some sort of basement or dungeon. The walls are stone, the floor concrete. There's a single window set high against the ceiling, too small for a grown human to crawl out of it. It looks sealed, but I can't be sure.

The room is barren, the light coming from a bare bulb set in the center of the ceiling. There's a switch for it near a door I am positive is locked. Another open, smaller door reveals a bathroom that wouldn't look out of place in a prison cell, but the light in there is off, so I can only make out a toilet, sink, and old-fashioned bathtub and shower head.

I am on a bed, it seems. This, too, wouldn't be out of place in prison. The thin, white mattress is covered with a white sheet, and there's a flat white pillow. The bed frame is metal, also white, with bars at the head and foot.

"What the fuck?" I mutter when I look down at myself and don't see my black pleated miniskirt and red top, but instead a flowy white nightgown that reminds me a little of Carrie's prom dress, sans blood.

My bra is gone too, and my panties don't feel like the black silk ones I put on before going out. I move the sheet lightly covering my legs back and, before I can check my underwear, I realize the weight I felt on my ankle is not my high heel dangling by its strap.

One ankle is in a black cuff, chained to the bed.

It is then the panic swells in my chest, bursting forth like a racehorse.

I'm trapped.

Fucking kidnapped and chained up like a dog.

I kick the sheet the rest of the way off and stand up, wondering how much slack the chain has, its strength, and how the Hell I can get out of here.

Don't panic now, I tell myself. You were locked up for three fucking years, you will not allow someone to do it again! What I need is to not be so weak and shaky from whatever he dosed me with.

If the chain is long enough, I can strangle him with it.

This basement is huge, spanning the whole length of the house above, and as soon as I test the chain, I realize no way in Hell will I reach the door. Or the lightswitch, for that matter.

He could leave me down here in the dark if he chose, for as long as he chose.

Panic swells again as I think about that and I crush it down. I go the other way, ensuring I don't move too fast and make myself trip like some bad horror movie heroine.

I can reach the bathroom, and the light in there is motion-censored, turning on when I step through the threshold. As I expected, it's dingy; clean, but old and worn. There's a bar of unopened soap, toilet paper, and a few thin towels on the counter by the sink.

It hits me that I'm barefoot, but the basement is pleasantly warm. I'm not cold even when stepping on concrete. Well, not freezing to death isn't exactly a comfort right now.

Then another thought hits me.

I keep assuming Pastor-in-Training Thomas took me.

What if he didn't? What if he sold me or something?

I feel nauseous and lean against the bathroom door frame — the bathroom itself has no door — and take deep breaths. In the thick silence, I hear boots on stairs on the other side of the door.

When it opens, I almost feel relieved when Thomas walks through the threshold.

"Good, you're awake," he says, closing the door behind him. "And … dizzy?"

I shake my head. Do I fight? I'd likely lose. But the alternative is, yet again, letting a man do whatever the fuck he wants to me. He will hurt me anyway; why shouldn't I get a few meager licks in first?

He steps closer and I decide to be stupid as Hell and lunge at him. I land a punch to his chest and he laughs.

Laughs!

Strong hands grip my shoulders and he holds me still, looking down at me with curious, calm eyes.

He doesn't look crazy. Mike, all the men he brought to me, they all had either a crazy or evil gleam in their eyes. Enjoyment. Thomas has none of those things.

"Little sinner, you continue to intrigue me even as you seal your fate," he says. "We have always fought against the things best for our well-being, haven't we? When as babies we fought against the doctor for vaccinations, as small children we fought against naps, against vegetables… But the doctors and our parents always won out, hm?" He runs one hand in my hair and I flinch. "I will win out against your innate sin."

Okay, I take it back. This fucker is batshit crazy for real.

"What exactly are you doing with me?" I ask.

The hand in my hair brushes along my cheek now, and I flinch again, moving away, making him grab my chin so I can't move my head.

"You were made for me," he says. "I knew the moment I saw you. That is why we kept coming around where I knew you would be working. Trying to save you. And yet you always rebuffed me, promiscuity and lust more important than the plan God has for you."

"Made … for you," I say, trying to wrap my head around the cuckoo bullshit coming out of his mouth.

Why are the hot ones always gay or insane?

He nods, green eyes shining in the dim light. "I brought Father Oliver along with me one day, but we didn't exit the car. He observed you. And he agrees, if I feel in my soul you were made to be my wife, he wants us to be happy."

"My dude, there is no ‘us'," I blurt out. "How long have you stalked me to know my real name anyway?"

"It was not stalking ; that's such a cold word," Thomas comments. "I needed to ensure I wasn't being led astray by your appearance, and to know how deep your sin ran. I needed to be certain what I felt for you was real, my little dove, before I brought you here and began my work."

"Your work?"

"Undoing the damage sin has caused to your body and soul." He raises my face to meet his eyes, and he looks … excited? "As long as it takes, whatever it takes, I will remove the stain on your soul and make you pure, worthy of being my wife, worthy of belonging to our holy community."

It's not a church. It's a fucking cult.

I can't let him see he's making me panic. I have to let him believe he can't hurt me, whatever his plans may be.

"Yeah? You want to purify me? Then do your worst."

He grins, and that's where the crazy shows. That smile would enjoy fileting someone's skin in a dark basement … sort of like this one.

"Oh, little dove, I do love a challenge."