Ravage (Dance with My Demons #3)

1. Chapter 1

Chapter 1

Avery

They say when you die you see a white light.

Everything is meant to be clear and serene, with all your loved ones waiting for you with open arms.

The pain is meant to end, all anxiety swept away, as you fade into the sunset happily.

So why does it feel like I'm in hell?

Fluorescent light blinds me, a haze poking at my peripheral vision as figures move beside me. I can hear faint, muffled words—the sounds drowned out by a thudding in my ears.

I hear my name spoken a few times, snapping my senses back into place—well, as much as they can through the fog that's consuming me. I blink rapidly, willing for some control over my body that's fighting whatever is coursing through it.

Slowly, a face comes into focus, and I stare sharply, keeping my gaze on a freckle on his nose to calm the waves. He notices me watching, lowering his clipboard with interest.

"Hello, Avery. I'm Dr. West," he says nonchalantly.

His relaxed manner is off-putting, making me nervous. I try to move my body but I can't. I struggle harder, realizing that my arms are tied down by my sides.

"Where am I?" I ask groggily. "Let my arms go."

Dr. West ignores me, writing some notes down on his clipboard. "I can understand it's a little scary but rest assured, you're in good hands."

I've never been so unassured in my entire life.

I force my neck up, straining to gaze down my body. Brown faded leather straps are crossed over my body, two over my torso at either end, one across each wrist, and a large one pinning my legs down. I wiggle my ankles to see if there's any room, but they just rub together, the leather digging into my skin.

"Is she awake?" another voice asks curiously.

"Yes," Dr. West answers, giving someone a smile opposite him.

I turn my head, spotting a female doctor, her auburn hair tied up in a tight bun. She's dressed in white like Dr. West, their matching lab coats devoid of embroidery.

I don't need details though. Flashbacks start rolling back through my mind, images of Dr. Elsher and Whittingham appearing. I remember being angry before everything started to get blurry.

I was drugged.

But the question is when?

Thinking back, I retrace my steps, heart sinking at the realization. Dr. Markel gave me a tablet in his room. It looked similar to what I usually take, but then again, lots of pills are white and circular. It could have been anything.

Did he betray me too?

I shouldn't be surprised, but a small part of me is. I guess it goes to show you never know someone's true intentions.

"Hi, Avery. I'm Dr. Cromwell, but you can call me Melanie."

My eyes scan over her face, narrowing at her cerulean-colored eyes. "Where am I?" I ask again through clenched teeth.

She smiles. It looks almost genuine, not sinister like I would have expected. "You're in the Emerson Lab. There's nothing to be afraid of. We're just going to be conducting some tests."

"On me?" I spit out in disgust, tugging on the straps again.

"Yes," Dr. West interjects, leaning over me with a penlight. He lifts my eyelids, shining the light into my eyes. "She's definitely more lucid now," he says to Dr. Cromwell. "Make a note of the timeframe for our records. That's quite interesting."

Anger floods through me. They are speaking about me as if I'm not here—or a human life.

"I'm not your guinea pig," I shoot back, turning my head away from him. "You can't do this. It's inhumane."

He sighs, switching the penlight off. "Does her file state anything about irritability? Or is this an effect from the medication?"

I gape at him. "Are you fucking serious right now?"

Someone places a hand on my shoulder, pulling my attention away from him. My gaze snaps over to Dr. Cromwell, her relaxed face giving me a reassuring look. I feel like a child being placated, and it dawns on me that I'm correct. I'm not a human life at all to them, at least not one worthy of respect. I'm just a test subject.

"Try to take deep breaths," she murmurs. "Your blood pressure is starting to rise."

My eyebrows furrow as I look down at my arm, noticing the pressure cuff deflating. "You're going to regret this," I mutter angrily. "You have no idea."

Dr. West snorts, somewhat amused at my comment. "Making threats," he says to himself, writing a note on the clipboard. "Definitely interesting."

"Stop writing shit down!"

He pauses, peering at me over the top of the clipboard. "We'll trial her under group B. I think she's a good candidate."

"What would you like me to start with?" Dr. Cromwell asks.

"Immersion, please. I would probably take her now. The medication is wearing off and she's likely to become physically aggressive once she's fully mobile again."

Dr. West gestures to someone out of sight, the sound of footsteps approaching. I spot two men in their thirties, dressed in black. They move next to me as the doctors step back. They start unbuckling the straps, and when my legs are freed, I try to lift them. I manage to elevate them an inch or so before they fall back down onto the bed, the muscles straining.

What the hell did they do to me?

The men lift me from the bed despite my protests, sitting me down in a wheelchair. I hastily look over at Dr. West, his chestnut eyes watching on with interest as he twirls his pen. He's waiting for me to do something, observing me like a wild animal.

I finally notice his faded hair, the once brown strands now mixed with gray, aging lines on his face as he frowns with curiosity. He should know better, but something tells me he doesn't care.

The wheelchair is pushed away from the bed, Dr. Cromwell walking beside me as we head to a large metal door. She uses her key card to scan us through, punching in a code like the Lilydale doors.

Am I still in Lilydale? I would have to be, right?

If I was a betting woman, I'd wager we are underground like where the morgue is. Except the hallways don't look familiar as we push through. If anything, the walls look brighter, cleaner. The Lilydale staff don't care about the condition of the facility on the inside, but whatever this place is, is well maintained.

The wheels squeak quietly as we head to a large door down the corridor. Dr. Cromwell walks ahead, opening it for us as we reach it.

"What's going on?" I try to ask her, but one of the men puts a hand on my shoulder, silencing me.

"Don't speak unless you are spoken to," he scolds.

My head snaps toward him, taking in his stubble and vomit-green eyes. "Go fuck yourself."

"She's fine," Dr. Cromwell asks calmly. "Through here, please." She directs them to a side room, the light dimmer. I have to squint to look around, immediately finding a large steel tank in the center of the room. There's a lid on top with handles and a small hole, but I'm jolted away from it, abruptly stopping to face the wall.

I watch as Dr. Cromwell puts her clipboard on a counter before opening a drawer to pull out a sealed plastic bag. Behind me, I hear the sound of running water and I turn my head to spot one of the men lifting the lid off.

It's a bathtub?

"How would you like her?" the other man asks.

Dr. Cromwell looks at me, lips twitching in thought. "To her undergarments, please."

My eyes widen as he steps toward me, my voice rough as I shoot him a glare. "Don't you dare fucking touch me."

He ignores me, reaching under my arms to bring my numbed body forward. I let out a yelp when I feel his hands on my back, lifting my shirt up. Immediately, fear crashes through me, panic rising as he pulls my clothes off. I can't resist or fight back, my muscles and limbs heavy. When he goes to reach for my shorts, a soft hand touches my shoulder.

"You're safe, Avery."

Her voice does nothing to calm me, tears prickling my eyes. Rough hands pull my shorts down my legs, leaving me in my bra and underwear, slumped in the wheelchair. When he goes to reach for me again, a scream escapes my throat against my will. It doesn't deter him though, arms snaking around me as he lifts my body off the seat.

It feels like poison ivy against my skin, the burning and itch of unfamiliar touch, lifting my unwilling frame.

I'm carried toward the metal tub, eyes looking down at the water pooling inside. As I'm lowered toward it, I feel a small ounce of relief, but it's short-lived when ice-cold water engulfs me.

A sharp gasp leaves my lips as my body sinks into the water, eyes wide as I look at Dr. Cromwell. "It's freezing," I say, hoping she'll realize they forgot to turn the hot water on.

She nods slowly. "It's called ice submersion therapy. You should adjust in a few minutes."

The men lift the lid off the ground, bringing it atop the tub. As it slides toward me, I realize with sickening horror what the hole is for. The lid clicks into place, the metal surrounding my neck as my head pokes out the hole.

My body starts shivering violently, teeth clattering as I try to move my arms and legs.

"You can go now," Dr. Cromwell directs the men, grabbing a rolling stool from the counter and sliding it to the end of the tub. She sits down, facing me with her clipboard, crossing her legs gracefully. "Please return in thirty minutes."

They give her a quick nod, vanishing from the room as the door slams closed behind them. I stare at her wide-eyed and I'm almost certain my lips match the color of her irises.

"Why are you doing this?" I manage to stutter out, voice shaking.

She pauses for a moment before giving me a soft smile. "It's nothing personal, Avery. It's just part of the job. It's for a good cause though."

People make the mistake of assuming that ice will numb you. But they are wrong. I'm quickly realizing that there's a point beyond the numbness where your skin starts to burn. My muscles scream in pain, desperate for warmth, despite the burning sensation which brings no relief. I tilt my head back to hide the tears that have pooled, blinking at the ceiling.

"You torture people for a good cause?" I mutter sarcastically, tears sliding down the side of my face.

"I know it doesn't seem like it, but it's true," Dr. Cromwell answers, the sound of her pen scribbling something. "Science is always evolving, new answers breaking through."

I laugh dryly, shaking my head. "And yet, we're still in the 1800s apparently."

When she doesn't respond, I bring my head forward, noticing her watching me closely. I know she can see my tears, but thankfully she rests the clipboard on her lap instead of making more notes.

"Our methods might be old but they were proven to be helpful. This is for your benefit too," she points out with blind optimism.

"If I survive that long," I shoot back, neck banging painfully into the metal as I shiver. "What else do you have planned?"

Dr. Cromwell smiles, but this time it doesn't reach her eyes. "We'll adjust our methods and research as we progress based on our findings."

"Are we still in the Lilydale facility?" I demand quietly.

"I can't answer that, Avery. I'm sorry."

Shaking my head, I glare at her, images of Grey, Theo, and Damon appearing in my mind. "You better hope for your sake that we're not," I say. "Because if we are, I have no doubt that you've just started a war."