I gave up, and without meaning to, drifted off. Then the nightmares crept in and threatened to send me into hysterics. I woke up screaming. Pleading all over again. And even then, there was no reply.
“Why am I here?” I ask myself that one question I never seem to get an answer to. Why am I still living if this is all it’s going to be for me?
When I was at the club, I hated the dark. I could never see where Blake was. Could never anticipate or prepare myself for whatever he decided to inflict on me next. And it was always in the dark that he would carry out his most heinous acts.
“You’re fucking insane,” I say out loud, using my last bit of energy to say what I’m about to next. “I’m glad I told Blake it was you. That I lied. Do you want to know why? Because I fucking hate you. You need to go to Hell where you belong!”
The door opens, and a breath of surprise whooshes out of my lungs. Squinting at the bright light that shines inside, Milton’s dark form stands in the doorway. “I don’t think the devil and I would get along.”
“I find that hard to believe.”
He smirks. “And you have no idea how close I am to dragging you down to it with me.”
“Go ahead.” He goes to grab the door, and I gasp. “Wa—wait! Don’t close the door. You’ve made your point. I’m the worst person in the world. Don’t you think I know that already? Bad choices I make always come back and haunt me. And I suffer. Believe me, I suffer. Isn’t that enough for you? Wait… am I…”
“Bleeding?” Breathing out heavily through his nose, he leans his shoulder against the frame of the door. I’m only realizing now that my wrists hurt. “Yes. Those cuffs you have on cut if you struggle. Which you’ve already demonstrated. My design. For if you take blood from me, I shall from you.”
He’s right. My hands and down my arms are soaked with blood, staining the fabric beneath me. Dizzily, I look away, closing my eyes. “I always wondered what it would feel like to bleed out.”
The bed dips, and Milton uncuffs one of my wrists. I feel him inspecting the cut now pumping blood, enough to make me feel funny. Light. Cold. “You probably won’t last the night with these wounds.”
I try to laugh, but it comes out strangled, and I pull my arm away. “Why waste your time with me, Milton. I bet there are better things you could be doing.”
My eyes flicker in his direction. He’s staring down at me, and I don’t know when it happened, but something’s changed with him. What, I don’t know.
When I attempt to sit up, the room whirls. Damn, I really have fucked up my wrists. How did I manage that?
“You should find someone who would be more fun to torture,” I go on. What am I talking about again? “Like Florence. Do you remember her?” Florence was one of the new girls Blake got for his men. An eighteen-year-old prostitute, so stunningly beautiful, it hurt to look at her. “She liked you. I’d bet she’d even let you fuck her.”
She used to annoy me by continually going on about Milton and how much she wanted him. Though, it seemed he was never interested in fucking her. And everyone was interested in fucking her.
“She’s dead.” As he stands and moves away, it sinks in what he said. Florence is dead. We had our differences at times, but weirdly, she was family.
“Did—did you?”
“Not my doing.” His tone is hard. “She didn’t do anything to me. You, on the other hand…”
“That’s too bad that she’s dead, and you’re stuck with me,” I whisper, hoping he will leave. And I’ll bleed out. And it’ll be heaven. “Because I will never let you fuck me.”
Lying back down, I rub my palm over my face, so tired. Weak. He says something else, but I don’t hear. My brain shuts down, and my eyes close. I give up. And all I can do is pray I don’t wake up.
Chapter Nine
It could be morning or night when I wake.
It’s hard to deal with the weight of exhaustion inside, the pain in my head pressing down on the backs of my eyes. For a moment, I think I’m still in that room. I twist my wrist just a little to see if any pain follows. There’s no sting. Nothing strapping me down. Who knows, maybe I imagined it all?
No Milton. No torture. No feelings.
As I open my eyes, the first thing I see is light coming from an expensive crystal lamp on a dressing table on the other side of the room. Stonehill doesn’t have such nice things. And I’m lying in a different bed, one that is much comfier than my own. Super soft pillows and a heavy comforter keeping me warm and sleepy.
I’m alive. Fuck.
The bedroom is beautiful; expensive dark furniture and blue-gray walls. I try to think about how I ended up here until remnants of what happened come back to me in flashes.
Milton. Torture. Feelings.
A door bangs in the distance, and my heart jumps to my throat. Even though there’s no way I can know it’s Milton, I sense that it is. Somehow.
And just like that, he walks inside the room before I’m ready to face him again, stopping when he sees I’m awake. Every muscle in my body seizes, and that’s when I notice my wrists wrapped in bandages. Like one of the suicide girls from Stonehill. “What time is it?” I ask, my throat scratchy and sore from all the screaming I’d done. Screaming, he made me do. He takes a seat on the bed next to me, and I lean away.
“It’s nine in the morning. You’ve been out
