8. Chapter 8

During the brief periods of time that I allow my consciousness to surface, everything hurts.

The pain is so overwhelming that it takes very little effort to let myself sink back under again.

I'd rather be drowning than breathe in air that smells like copper and sweat.

The copper is mine, the sweat is his.

It was a pairing of scents I'd hoped to never smell again.

Despite my resolve to fight him, each time it takes less and less effort on his part to overpower me.

My refusal to eat or drink anything else hasn't helped and even though I know I need to conserve energy to keep my stamina up, I can't stomach the thought of being drugged again.

What he does to me when I'm awake is bad enough.

What he does when I'm unconscious isn't something I can think about or I risk breaking permanently.

He's always here now.

Every day, several times a day.

For the first few days, he kept me tied to the bed, only allowing me free long enough to use the bathroom.

I lost the skin around my wrists and ankles pretty quickly, soon turning to open wounds.

Since my release from the ties, they've just barely begun to heal.

Add it to the list.

When he's here, he cleans and dresses the cuts he's made on the rest of my body, only so he can ensure the scarring will turn out exactly as he wants, then he makes new ones.

He hasn't let me shower.

I know it's because he wants me to smell like him.

I know that because he's a creature of habit, and we've been through this song and dance before.

I may not be tied up anymore, but I'm still a puppet with strings pulled by a master who takes no care with his toys.

During the more brutal of our "lessons,"

he whispers to me.

He tells me how much he missed me, how he forgives me for what happened before, how much he loves me.

Love .

Despite his vehement claims, he doesn't know the meaning of the word.

But I don't think I do either when I sit back and think about it.

My parents never loved me.

Call it the curse of our social class.

My only friend growing up was Amelia, and while I knew she'd always be there for me and I'd do anything in the world for her, I wasn't sure if what I felt for her was love.

How could you know you were feeling something that you've never been the recipient of before? It took me a long time to realize that it was difficult to recognize how truly being loved made you feel, but it was very easy to recognize the feeling of being without it.

I think that's why, when Dante first entered my life, I was so infatuated by him.

Because he made me feel something I'd never felt before.

I'd handed him my heart, body, and soul on a silver platter, and in return, he'd given me my first true taste of what love really felt like.

It felt like a thousand cuts, a hundred bruises, dozens of humiliations, and one rule. Obey.

After a while, I became adept at following that rule.

Whether by accident or design, when pushed past a certain point, my mind and body went into a kind of autopilot.

Operating with the sole purpose of living another day, even when there were plenty of days I wished would be my last.

I guess somewhere in the back of my subconscious, I knew that at some point, he'd have to slip up.

Allow me the tiniest window through which I could escape.

And eventually, he did.

It only took six years.

For two years after that, I worked to rebuild my life.

I was never the same as before, but I liked to think I became a better version of myself.

A smarter version.

I'd never again let a man have power over me.

Never again allow a man to dictate to me what I could do, where I could go, what I could wear.

When I could bathe or when I could use the bathroom.

No, at least on the outside, I projected a confident and independent woman.

On the inside, I was still very much the scared little girl who smelled copper and sweat everywhere she went.

Blinking hard to dislodge the memories, I realize that it's nighttime now, and I'm finally alone.

He hasn't cut me over the last three days, and though I'm unsure why, I almost wish he had.

The things he chose to do to me instead are somehow worse.

After our most recent "lesson", Dante left me here on the blood and tear-stained mattress, allowing me a few precious hours of sleep.

As much as I wanted to, sleep eluded me.

Curled into a ball on my side, I stared at that familiar wall next to the bed because I'd never even think about laying on my back.

We were friends now, the wall and I.

It kept my secrets and, just like the trappings of a prison cell, helped me keep track of my days.

Not long after I'd gotten here, I'd used one of my nails to make small indentations in the wall, counting the days as they went by so I'd know exactly how long I'd been gone.

I had a feeling, however, that I may have been here for a bit longer than I thought, having missed a day here and there when my mind just couldn't handle reality anymore.

It still made me feel slightly better, though, because, with each passing day, I knew that my friends would search for me that much harder.

Digging that much deeper.

As I stare at that wall, my gaze starts to blur at the edges, and I know that I'm about to enter that headspace where nothing and no one can hurt me.

Suddenly, something in the room catches the moonlight coming in through the barred window, and two bright blue spots appear on the expanse of white across from me.

Immediately, I think of Deacon.

Of how his blue eyes glitter when he's laughing or making some kind of sarcastic joke … which is always.

How they darkened whenever they looked at me.

I wonder what he's doing right now.

If he's helping Amelia and Merrick search for me.

If he even knows or cares that I'm missing.

I'd like to think so, but just like the dozens before him, Deacon was a blip on my radar.

Blips didn't care about me any more than I cared about them.

Blips couldn't hurt you.

Even so, as the two spots of blue shimmer in the moonlight, I finally drift off, not into my safe space but to sleep, those bright blue eyes across from me promising rescue and retribution.

In my imagination, at least.

The sound of a door slamming open has me jerking awake, the movement causing white-hot flames to erupt all over my body, but especially my back.

I can't stop the involuntary yelp of pain.

Quickly clamping my mouth shut, I gingerly turn my head towards the door to see Dante striding into the room, holding a white box.

Immediately, my brain conjures up images of all the new torture scenarios that he has planned with whatever's in there.

Everything inside me starts to tremble, and I know I'm shaking outwardly.

I can't help it.

Most likely from a mixture of terror and weakness, the combination manifests symptoms that I can no longer control.

I stare at him wide-eyed, waiting for news of my next "lesson."

However, when he speaks, saying I'm shocked would be an understatement.

"Get up.

We have somewhere to be,"

he says, his accent seemingly more pronounced than usual.

As I continue to stare at him as though he's grown a second head, I take in more details that seem … off.

His suit is wrinkled, and his hair is slightly disheveled, as though he's run his hands through it several times.

Which he definitely doesn't do.

His words are clipped, and he looks frazzled, also, very unlike him.

Dante is never frazzled.

Frenzied, often.

Frazzled, never.

When I don't immediately make a move to sit up, he drops the box down on the end of the bed, coming around and gripping my arm in a punishing hold.

Pulling me up to my knees, the flames licking at my back combust into an inferno, and he brings his face so close to mine that I can feel the small particles of spit fly from his mouth when he says, "I said move, Sirena! And don't tell me that you're still hurting from the other night.

I've let you rest, no? This is why.

We have to go out.

I'm going to take your bandages off; then you're going to shower and put on what's inside that box.

Do something with your hair and face, too.

I need a trophy tonight, not a zombie."

The fact that he considers sexually assaulting me instead of slicing open my skin as "letting me rest'' would be laughable if anything about this situation was funny.

Looking into his eyes, I remember all those years ago when I would've been happy to fall into those dark depths.

And so I did, not knowing that there was no bottom.

Just an endless cycle of falling, never knowing what chaos I'd go through on the way down.

An image of Alice in Wonderland flashes into my mind, and chalking it up to hysteria, I can't stop the laugh that bubbles up my throat and out of my mouth, right into Dante's angry face.

The open-palmed slap is a shock to the system, but the stinging pain in my cheek barely registers.

He's done far worse, and I'm sure he'll do worse yet.

So when I don't immediately cry out or beg for forgiveness, rough hands release my arm to fist in my hair, dragging me from the bed and towards the now locked bathroom.

At this point, I do cry out, but this time in rage.

"Let me go, you son of a bitch!"

Kicking and screaming, I try to wrestle his hands from my hair, feeling the strands being ripped from my scalp the entire time.

I know I'm probably doing more harm than good but I've cut off my nose to spite my face so many times since I got here that I've lost count and, honestly, I don't give a shit anymore.

If he wants to kill me, he can just kill me and get it over with.

Within seconds, he stops us in front of the bathroom door, releases one hand from my hair to reach into his pocket, and pulls out a key.

Quickly unlocking the door, he pulls me inside, throwing me down hard onto the cream-colored marble.

Unlike the bedroom, this room is sparkling.

Probably because the bastard has barely let me use it since I got here.

I watch from my place on the floor as he steps over to the shower stall, pulling back the frosted glass of the sliding door and turning the water on.

My eyes quickly dart between him and the open bathroom door.

I could try to run.

I might make it past him.

If I do, I might be able to get out of the bedroom before he can catch me, and … then what? I don't know how many men he has in this house or the surrounding grounds.

I don 't know what weapons they possess or what orders they've been given in regards to me.

If I manage to escape, are they supposed to capture me alive or shoot on sight? Surely, he'd want me back alive.

Right? Unless he'd rather see me dead than run the risk of losing me twice.

As the internal struggle wages, the opportunity passes right before my eyes.

Hope dwindles as he turns back to me and points to the shower.

"Get in and wash yourself, Sirena, or I'll do it for you.

If you make me do it, I promise to take the same care with your body during the process as I've done thus far."

Meaning he'll make it hurt.

Of course he would.

He'd like nothing more than an excuse to inflict more pain.

I know that fighting him further would be futile, and probably only serve to weaken me more, possibly ruining any future escape attempts.

Even knowing that, I glare daggers at him before giving one small nod of my head.

He lets out a small chuckle that almost has me changing my mind and making a run for it, but I don't.

I keep my jaw clamped tightly shut while he exits the bathroom and leaves me to bathe and get ready, for what I don't know.

When I hear the bedroom door slam shut, I let out a harsh breath.

As I stare down at the cream tiles that were so spotless before, I notice a smear of fresh blood across the one closest to me.

I'm bleeding from somewhere.

Either a barely healed wound has reopened, or a new one was created when Dante threw me to the hard floor.

It's a testament to how desensitized I've become that I can't even pinpoint where the blood is coming from.

At this point, the pain receptors in my body are all firing at once.

I put my palms on the floor and attempt to push myself up to a standing position.

As the tender skin of my back stretches with the effort, I let out a low moan before my arms give out, and I collapse back to the hard tiles.

On my hands and knees now, I pant for breath, letting out a small sob that's full of frustration and exhaustion.

How did I get back here again? To a place that I told myself I'd never have to return to.

For two years, I repeated those words to myself over and over.

Every time I woke up screaming or thought I caught a glimpse of his face in a crowded room.

Every time I let a man touch me, he was always there in the back of my mind.

Tainting everything I did.

The only thing that survived was the music.

But as I stare at that streak of blood across the floor through watery eyes, I realize there's only silence now.

As I blink, a tear falls to mix with the bright red painting the cream tile.

Despite my resolve, the negatively intrusive thoughts bombard me.

I'm never gonna get out of here.

If my friends were going to find me, they would've done it already.

No one is looking for me.

No one cares.

I'm alone … again.

Eventually, I manage to pull myself up from the floor and step into the shower.

I welcome the sting as the water hits my skin, running over every cut and bruise.

I take advantage of the gift Dante has unwittingly given me by cupping my hands together and drinking gulp after gulp of the tepid water.

As I hang my head, I watch the water turn from clear to red, then red to pink, before eventually running mostly clear again.

The same process happens when I work up the energy to shampoo my hair.

My arms shake with the effort and I realize that I'm weaker than I thought.

I feel like I'm stuck in an impossible position.

I know if I don't start eating and drinking, I won't be able to escape, even if the opportunity arises.

But the idea of what Dante would do to my body, should I be drugged again has me terrified.

I either starve myself to death or allow him unfettered access to every part of me without my consent.

Without even being able to attempt to defend myself.

Either way, I'm fucked.

Despondent, I turn off the shower, drying myself and wrapping my hair in a thick white towel.

White .

I release a humorless laugh.

Not for long.

As I step out of the bathroom in an almost trance-like state, I stare at the large box on the end of the bed.

My stomach churns as I remove the lid to find a pile of black lace, silk, and some makeup and hair products.

The thought briefly crosses my mind to question why Dante would want me to go anywhere dressed in this.

It's nothing more than black lingerie and a thin silk robe.

But as quickly as the thought comes, it drifts away.

The whys don't matter anymore.

I've finally been pushed past the point of caring.

As my body goes through the motions, I dress and do my hair.

When I look into the mirror to begin putting on my makeup, I see … nothing.

Blank eyes stare back at me from a face sporting sunken cheeks and dark circles.

I try to focus, and as I do, the picture becomes clearer.

Releasing another bitter laugh ending in a coughing fit, I realize I recognize this person.

I've met her before, and she is nothing.

Like a light switch being flipped, Siren takes a backseat to Sirena.

Dante's whore.

A worthless nobody.

Any tears I might've shed over the death of my old self are blotted away as I apply a liberal coat of foundation, knowing Dante won't want any of the bruises to show.

When I've finished putting on my makeup, I return to the bedroom.

Slipping my feet into a pair of black heels left by the door, I sit obediently on the bed and wait for the next phase of my condemnation to begin.

I'll go through the motions until I can't anymore.

Until my warped mind makes the decision to remove me from this Earth.

Not that it'll matter.

In all the ways that count, I'm already dead.