1. Frankie

Chapter 1

Frankie

Seven Years Ago…

Weight crushes my lungs.

Breathing? Impossible .

Existing? Probable .

Surviving? Ask me tomorrow.

Gasping for breath, I open my eyes to see the same stain on the yellow ceiling in the shape of a cat. For some fucked up reason, that stupid cat comforts me as I focus on the outline and how the tail wraps up and around its body, flicking at an ink blot. The paint is chipped, flaking off in jagged, uneven patches, the corners darkened with age and neglect, just like everything else in this prison. The walls seem to close in on me, the ceiling’s oppressive presence amplifying my claustrophobia. A faint, damp smell of mold lingers in the air, mixing with the pungent odor of disinfectant.

As my breathing regulates, the weight on my chest grows heavier, my lungs struggling to gulp in enough air. With each inhale, they rattle like I’m popping popcorn, making sharp, crackling sounds that reverberate through my chest.

I’m so sick of this, but I won’t let it break me.

The room is small, barely larger than a closet, and the walls are a sickly shade of beige, stained with patches of darker brown where water has seeped through. A single, bare bulb hangs from the ceiling, its harsh light creating deep shadows in the corners. The bed I’m chained to is little more than a cot, its thin mattress offering no comfort against the metal frame beneath.

“You’re awake.” The door softly creaks open, and Valerie steps through. Her perfume precedes her, a sickly sweet floral scent that mixes with the room’s mustiness. It’s overpowering, the artificial bouquet clashing violently with the natural decay around me, making my stomach churn.

I try not to notice the way her eyes brighten when she looks at me or the way her curls bounce around her face, each movement like a taunt. She’s beautiful, and she weaponizes that beauty, wielding it like a sword. Sometimes I wonder if she is an ancient goddess.

Yet she bleeds.

I know because I scratched her just to prove she’s real and not a figment of my imagination. The metallic scent of her blood still haunts me, a reminder of my own desperate attempts at rebellion.

Closing my eyes, I let my head thump back on my pillow and focus on breathing. The rattle doesn’t stop.

This isn’t the end… not yet.

It wasn’t a good run. It was absolute bullshit.

Memories flash through my mind of the cold, sterile orphanage where my parents left me without a backward glance, the countless foster homes, each promising love but delivering only disappointment, and finally, Valerie’s honeyed words of a better life that led me to this hellish prison. My world, once vast with possibilities, has shrunk to this room, these chains, and the constant battle for survival.

All of it is absolute bullshit.

Even my shadows have left me — the comforting, whispering presences that used to dance at the edges of my vision, offering comfort and strength.

Now, there’s nothing but harsh light and emptiness.

Perhaps that was Valerie’s goal all along — break me down until there is nothing left of me. She’s succeeded. For a brief moment, I thought maybe she’d help me, but that dream died when she kidnapped me and chained me to a bed. I was a fool to believe in her kindness and think she saw something worth saving in me.

As she sits on the bed beside me and places her hand on my forehead, I curl toward her as far as the chains will allow because I’m touch starved. Hell, I’m just starved in general. It’ll take me a lifetime to regain the weight and strength I lost if I ever find my motivation to live. I’ve lost that too. I’d rather die.

“Oh, my sweet Frankie.” She says my name like a prayer, her voice a soft, soothing murmur that makes my skin crawl.

There’s no one to pray to. Not anymore.

All the gods have forsaken me. I’ve prayed to each and every one of them. It was about the same time my shadows slipped away, leaving me to fucking rot.

Perhaps my shadows disappeared due to the amount of light that Valerie keeps on in here. Her torture isn’t anything that I thought I’d ever experience. The brightness burns my eyes, making them water constantly. I almost snort at that. In my last foster house with Bishop, he had me watch The Godfather trilogy. That is the torture I expected, not this… nurturing and fakeness while she keeps me chained to the bed until I look forward to her visits, her touch, and her voice.

I want to watch her bleed. I almost smile at that.

“Fuck,” she mutters under her breath before she gets up, letting the mask slip. As my eyelids flutter back open, I watch her make a call with her cell phone. The screen glows in the dim room, casting eerie shadows on the walls.

I have one of those too. It’s on the nightstand, dead and out of reach. She left it there for me just in case I wanted to let anyone know where I was, but there’s no one. It’s just me and this room with the fucking cat on the ceiling.

I focus on her words, muffled and hushed as she speaks into the phone.

“Fever, yeah.” She pauses. “Lungs are rattling. Just like the last one.”

The last one.

I shut my eyes again. I thought I heard screams and cries, but the room is soundproof. Every time she closes the door, my ears feel as though the atmospheric pressure rises and threatens to pop my eardrums. The silence is deafening, a constant reminder of my isolation.

One of these days, I’m going to get out of here, and when I do, I’m going to… What? Take her out? Take this house out? I’m too fucking weak to even walk.

I cough and roll to the side. I allow the lung spasm to do its thing, bringing up whatever bullshit I’ve been breathing in this room. My bet is on the mold. The taste is bitter, making me gag.

Valerie unlocks my cuffs, freeing my wrists for the first time in… I can’t remember how long. My arms feel like lead, useless at my sides. With deceptive gentleness, she applies a cool ointment to my raw, chafed skin. The relief is immediate, maddening in its contrast to my constant discomfort.

The medicinal scent mingles with the room’s persistent mildew odor, creating a bizarrely nostalgic aroma that evokes moments of false hope. I want to recoil from her touch, but my traitorous body leans in, craving even this twisted form of comfort.

“This will help heal the chafing,” Valerie murmurs, her fingers light as she works the ointment into my skin. The scent of antiseptic rises, a clinical note in our toxic dance of captor and captive.

It actually feels amazing, but I won’t thank her. I’ll never thank her. She can pry those words out of my ghost, because when I die, and it’s starting to look like I might, then I will either haunt her, kill her, or make her suffer. The thoughts swirl in a frenzied tornado of hate and pain. All I know is she’ll pay. Somehow.

“Come on, Frankie. We need to move,” she coos, her voice soft yet commanding. She pulls me into a sitting position, and the room spins, the cat on the ceiling blurring into a yellow smear.

I nearly vomit. All she’s been feeding me is bone broth. The smell of it clings to my clothes, my skin, everything. I almost fall on the floor, but Valerie is there to catch me—well, mostly. My face slams into her shoulder, and it takes all of my focus just to breathe.

I’m so tired.

“Look at you,” she praises, though I’m not sure what there is to praise. “A perfect weight. Frankie, I think you are just about ready for training.”

She could recite the entire Declaration of Independence and I wouldn’t understand a single word because my brain cells are starving, and this bitch thinks I’m suddenly the perfect weight.

She tugs me up, and all I can do is lean on her. My long, dark hair is in knots and stuck under my sweaty arms. Saliva drips from my mouth, and I nearly pass out just from standing.

I get it now. The weaker I am, the easier I am to manipulate. Well, she can weaken my body all she wants, but she can never touch my mind.

She tugs me up and wraps her arms around me for support. Every step is agony as she guides me out of the room. The hallway is dim, the light at the end harsh and blinding. I stumble and nearly fall, but Valerie catches me, her grip firm and unyielding. My legs are weak, trembling with the effort to hold me up.

As we walk, I glance at the walls covered in photographs. Most are of Valerie, smiling and vibrant, but a few show other gaunt and hollow-eyed faces, their expressions mirroring my own despair. Ever since Valerie took me from the orphanage, promising a better life, my world shrank to this room and these chains. How many have there been? How many more will there be?

The journey to the medical room feels endless. Each step sends shockwaves of pain through my weakened body. The floor is cold beneath my bare feet, and the chill seeps into my bones. The walls seem to close in then expand, my vision swimming with each labored breath.

Valerie leads me to a small, sterile room at the end of the hall, the scent of disinfectant overwhelming. It stings my nose and makes my eyes water. A man in a white coat waits for us, his expression blank and professional. He looks me over, his gaze clinical and detached. The fluorescent lights flicker above, casting a sickly yellow hue on everything.

The closer Valerie gets, the antsier he becomes, but he doesn’t bother to help. When we are within a few feet, he pulls out a thermometer and checks my fever.

“Fever’s still high,” he mutters. “Get her in here.” He spins on a heel, stomping into the room as though we are interrupting his day.

Sorry for getting sick in your prison, asshole.

Valerie gets me into the room, which looks like a doctor’s office—white, sterile, and smelling faintly of bleach. She sets me on a chair beside a bed, where I nearly fold over as the doctor gets close, checking my vitals. The stethoscope is cold against my skin, making me shiver.

I might pass out at one point, but I can’t be sure.

“Lungs are congested. She needs rest, fluids, and antibiotics.”

I gasp for breath at his words, fully waking up.

Valerie nods, her mask of concern slipping back into place. “Do whatever you need to make her better.”

My eyelids flutter closed, and I slouch against the bed.

Just let me rest. Tomorrow, I’ll fight again.

“Live,” he whispers before he administers a shot, and I barely feel the prick of the needle. My body is numb, and my mind is foggy from pain and exhaustion. As the medication starts to take effect, the world fades to black.

Did he really demand I live? It’s the last thought I have before I fall asleep once again.

When I wake, I’m back in the room with the cat on the ceiling. The chains are gone, replaced by soft restraints that hold me to the bed. Valerie sits beside me, gently stroking my hair. Her touch is light, almost tender, but I know better than to be comforted by it.

“Feeling better, sweet Frankie?” she asks, her voice dripping with false sweetness.

I don’t answer. I can’t. My throat is dry, and my tongue feels like sandpaper, but the fever has broken, and I can breathe a little easier. The rattle in my lungs is still there, but it’s quieter now.

“Good,” Valerie murmurs. “You’ll be up and about in no time.”

She leaves the room, and I close my eyes, letting the darkness wash over me. Even in sleep, however, I can’t escape the reality of my situation. Valerie’s touch lingers, providing a constant reminder of my captivity. The psychological torture is worse than any physical pain, her manipulation and deceit a relentless presence in my mind.

In my dreams, I see the cat on the ceiling, its tail flicking at an ink blot. It mocks me, a silent witness to my suffering. Somewhere in the darkness, I hear the faintest whisper of my shadows calling to me, urging me to survive.

One day, I will get out of here. One day, I will make her pay. For now, though, I’m a prisoner in my own mind, waiting for the moment when I can reclaim my freedom. The thought of escape is a faint glimmer of hope in the darkness, a promise I make to myself every waking moment.

No one will ever hold me hostage again.

No one.

As I drift between consciousness and sleep, I begin to piece together fragments of Valerie’s plans. The “training” she mentioned… What could it mean? Whatever it is, I know it can’t be good. With each passing moment, I feel a tiny spark of strength returning. My shadows may have abandoned me for now, but I refuse to abandon myself.

I will survive this, I will escape, and when I do, Valerie will learn that she created something far more dangerous than she ever intended.

The cat on the ceiling stares down at me, its eyes seeming to glow in the dim light. For a moment, I swear I see it move, its tail twitching in a silent message of encouragement.

Stay strong, Frankie. Your time will come.