1. Belle

In my dream, I am running.

Running up a hill with a boy just a few years older than me.

I"m six years old again, carefree, and with not a single care in the world—free from the knowledge that there are cruel, twisted people out there who only wish to exploit and take advantage of me.

Back before the world broke me.

I speed up on my little legs, calling over my shoulder, "You can"t catch me!"

The boy lags, huffing and puffing, "Wait up!"

I can hardly hear him over the pealing sounds of my laughter, and before long, I crest the great hill, stopping to take in the beautiful scenery that spreads far and wide like an ocean of green.

The whole wide world. Well, at least that"s what it looks like to my six-year-old mind.

The boy catches up, gasping for breath beside me, and now we gaze at that distant horizon together, hand in hand.

Mommy says there are bad people out there, and that we should never leave the safety of the city.

But being a rebellious six-year-old, I can"t help but be curious, and now I point my finger at that distant gray line. "What"s out there?"

The boy"s face blanches, and now his ocean blue eyes, so like mine, shimmer with dread. "Nothing good. You must promise me you will never go over there."

I worry my bottom lip, ice filling my veins at the dire tone in his voice.

If my brother says it"s bad, then it must be terrible. Because he is one of the bravest people I know.

I nod, black curls falling over my eyes. "Promise."

He smiles down at me, and I see that familiar grin again, the one that makes dimples appear on his cheeks.

Darkness gathers overhead, and it looks like a storm is brewing. Rain pours heavily from the sky, chasing away the sweet scent of summer grass and my brother"s shadow.

Now the boy has gone, and I am faced with this cruel world alone.

I should have listened to him that day. For I did go beyond the horizon…

And I soon learned that the monsters I feared under my bed were real all along.

***

I don"t wake with a start.

The dream doesn"t even scare me. Nothing hardly ever does anymore, for I truly have become a broken doll.

I can"t even remember the last time I laughed or cried.

I don"t feel much of anything these days.

Because the man who purchased me three years ago made sure of that. He calls himself Francis, and never once has he hugged or told me that he loves me.

He always keeps me at arm"s length, and what"s sad is that I"ve become accustomed to his coldness. But at least he gives me books to read.

They"re my only connection to the outside world, and without them, I don"t know what I"d have done.

In those books, people hug each other and confess their feelings — feelings like love, anger, and lust…

One time, I tried to initiate contact. Just once. But Francis punished me for it dearly by taking away my books for a whole three days. He even failed to buy me something nice that week.

It"s been his tradition since he bought me—to gift me one nice thing a week. Mostly books, but he has given me jewelry and clothes too.

But lately, he has started buying me pillows, blankets, and throw rugs.

Anything soft, basically.

For some reason, I"ve been more attracted to these kinds of gifts these days, yet I"m too afraid to show him how much I love his silken pillows and velvet blankets.

I fear he may take them away from me as a form of punishment when I get too comfortable with him.

He"s done it before, and the grief I felt when he deprived me of my pillows was enough to make me cry a rainstorm. But no matter how sad I get, the tears never come.

Crying has become foreign to me. I"m not sure if the little girl in my dream even is me anymore.

It"s like remembering someone else"s life.

Who was that girl and the boy? His name is always at the tip of my tongue, but it never quite comes.

I"m surprised I even know my name. For as long as I can remember, I"ve always been Belle.

Yet for all I know, that could have been the name that the Facility gave me.

But back then, they mostly called me number twenty-three.

The boy in the dream is a blur. All I can recall are his ocean-blue eyes and that dimpled smile.

The day Francis bought me, I thought I was finally free of the gilded cage I"d been raised in.

But it turned out that I left one prison just to join another.

I don"t even know what the world looks like outside my small apartment.

I have a window, but the only view I have is of my gray courtyard with my vegetable patch and small garden.

My pride and joy.

But sometimes, I am scared to show how much I love that garden. For I fear Francis will take it away from me as a form of punishment.

Still, I can"t help the bubble of affection that builds up inside me as I water my little tomato plant.

I call him Jerry.

"How are you today, Jerry?"

Yes. I am talking to a tomato plant, but I have no other choice. It"s not like there is anyone else to talk to.

Francis often leaves me alone for days, so I will talk to the vegetables and the flowers when I grow bored.

A flittering sound catches my attention, and I look at my bird feeder.

A robin.

I had begged Francis to get me the bird feeder because I always loved the sound that the birds made first thing in the morning.

That robin has visited my garden many times now, and we have grown accustomed to one another.

At first, he always flew away from me when I tried to initiate conversation, but once he learned that I meant him no harm, he happily let me feed him from the palm of my hand.

I offer him a handful of seeds, and he jumps into my palm, taking his fill.

Despite how broken I am, I smile.

Such a precious little creature. The world can"t be that bad if something as pure and beautiful as this exists.

"It"s all right. You take your time. No need to rush."

The robin eats quickly, and I have never seen anything move so fast.

Finally, he flutters over the high wall of my garden, one covered in barbed wire to prevent my escape.

Where would I even escape to?

I hear the tumblers of the front door click next, and my back goes ramrod straight the moment I scent Francis.

He always smells like dried ink and old newspaper, and I often wonder if his senses are as heightened as mine.

Sometimes, my own body gives off a strange scent of burned sugar. Maybe caramel with a hint of chocolate. Which is strange, because I have never once tasted chocolate or caramel.

Well, not in this lifetime, anyhow…

Finally, Francis opens the door, and his voice rings out across the apartment. My lungs seize and I forget how to breathe.

"Belle?"

It takes me a moment to respond, and with a lick of my dry lips, I call out, "I"m in the garden…"

Footsteps approach me next, and I put my watering can down, keeping my hands behind my back. No matter what, I can"t let him see me tending to my little garden.

I can"t let him take it away from me when I make another mistake.

I seem to be making them a lot lately.

Francis appears at the door, and his eyes go straight to my muddy dress.

How could I have forgotten? I"d been digging up carrots.

He stalks closer, and I go completely still, the only thing moving my pounding heart.

The man stops before me. He"s tall, his chin reaching my forehead, but considering I"m only five foot three, he can"t be that much taller.

Maybe five foot eight or nine.

Some of the men described in my books are way over six feet, and I couldn"t even imagine…

While Francis may not be traditionally handsome, like some of the men in my books, he isn"t completely unfortunate-looking either.

Plain, is the word I"m searching for. Francis has thin hair, which is graying slightly at the edges, and a skinny nose and chin, and sometimes I wonder what it would be like to gaze upon a beautiful male face.

One with a square jawline, dimpled chin, and piercing eyes.

Francis often forgets to check the contents of the books he gives me, and, well… let"s just say that I went to bed with more than wet bedsheets that night.

I had to put them in the wash the next day.

They reeked of caramel.

The pages of those smutty books are the only action I ever get. Francis has never once shown that kind of interest in me, and while he tells me that I am beautiful, it"s merely as one would appreciate a work of art.

"Your hands…" he orders, and I have no choice but to oblige and show him my dirty fingernails.

I hold them out, and he shakes his head in disapproval.

"What have I told you, Belle? Personal hygiene is a must."

I never understood why. Who else will see me?

It"s just me in this apartment.

I hold my head down. "Sorry, I was digging up carrots."

His watery blue eyes fall on my vegetable patch, and my heart drops when he steps toward it.

No…

"This is the last straw, Belle. I don"t mind letting you have this garden, but you must remember to wash your hands afterward."

Well, I was going to, but I was too busy feeding the birds and talking to Jerry the tomato.

Not once does he approach me. He"s always careful to keep three feet between us, but as always, I don"t question it.

I just push the morose thoughts aside.

Sometimes, I fear Francis can read my thoughts. Just one look into my big blue eyes, and he knows… knows all the dirty things I have ever dreamed of.

"Well, don"t let it happen again. One pillow."

I nod my head.

He is going to take one of my pillows away today for my mishap.

Now he makes me watch as he takes my biggest, fluffiest pillow, yet no matter what, I never shed a tear.

I am devastated, truly, but for some reason, I don"t cry.

It"s as I said. I am broken.

And I probably always will be.

I love that pillow too, more than the others—I like to pretend that it"s the main male character in the book I"m reading.

And sometimes, I have my way with it.

If Francis notices the smell of my arousal on the pillow, then he doesn"t comment on it as he drops it into a black trash bag while wearing white latex gloves.

He gives me a once over, inclining his head at my ensuite bathroom.

"Now, I want those nails clean for when I return."

Which could be tomorrow or a week from now. Francis just comes and goes.

Still, I nod. "Yes, Francis."

The man takes one last look at me, an expression of complete disinterest on his plain, thin face, and then he leaves through the door.

He inputs a new code, and I watch from beneath my long eyelashes, trying to look as if I don"t notice.

It"s hard to memorize because he changes it often, but I have begun to notice a pattern.

The code always ends in the number twenty-three.

My old number at the Facility.

Should be easy to remember.

I don"t even dare ask when he will be back. The last time I did, well… he took away more than a pillow.

It"s not until the door clicks shut behind him that I finally relax. Dropping onto the bed, I grab the pillows I have left, holding them close to my chest.

There has got to be more to life than this. I know for certain there is; I have read about it in books.

In those stories, the men treat the woman like a goddess, worshiping every inch of her body. They don"t look at her with complete apathy, as if she is merely a statue at a museum.

I won"t wash my hands just yet. Francis won"t come back that soon.

So, I will indulge in my rebellion for a little longer, dreaming of better days.

Maybe if I close my eyes hard enough, I will remember the name of that little girl in my dream, and the sweet little boy, too.