Blossoming Dahlia (Constrained Bouquet #1)

1. Dahlia

Chapter one

Dahlia

M y name is Dahlia Porter.

Sometimes when you repeated something over and over enough times, the words would lose all meaning and begin to sound like gibberish, and maybe that was true in normal circumstances.

I repeated my words like a mantra, a soothing prayer that steadied me whenever my mind started drifting toward insanity.

Or maybe I’d already gone insane, and this was what someone with a fractured mind did, just mindlessly repeating the same thing over and over because it was the only thing they had left.

My name is Dahlia Porter.

Once upon a time, I had a life. It wasn’t particularly glamorous or exciting by any means, but it was normal, and I had enjoyed it for the most part.

I missed my little apartment, which was just off campus, close enough to walk to work.

I taught a class at the University, Spiritualism and the Occult in Modern Culture, and it was just enough money to cover my rent and groceries while also giving me enough freedom to work on my research.

My goal was to publish a book someday, and I’d been dangerously close to achieving that goal before…

Before.

That was what my life was now, divided into Before and Now.

There was no After yet, and I never let myself dwell on the fact that there probably wouldn’t be.

Before was good, I focused on Before to keep my thoughts from drifting too close to Now.

So, instead of staring at the door of the little room I was trapped in, I thought about repainting my bedroom from Before.

I had wanted to go bold and paint my room something crazy like a dark plum color, but I’d always held off.

I would though, if I got the chance, the first thing I’d do was paint those damn walls the richest shade of plum I could find.

I heard a small click, and my heart jumped into my throat, pounding like crazy as I fought to remain still and calm.

Breathe in, breathe out.

A small tray slid across the floor, through the little slat at the bottom of the door.

On it was a small bowl of something that might’ve been porridge, but I’d stopped trying to figure out what it was ages ago.

I waited five more breaths before I stood up and walked over to it, my heels clicking with each step on the cold concrete floor.

I knelt gracefully to pick it up, mindful not to wrinkle my dress.

This one was something more modern and sleek, like an evening gown someone would wear at a charity event or maybe a movie premiere.

I carried my little tray carefully over to the corner of the room.

I kicked my right leg out a bit behind me, a habit I’d picked up in order to jerk the cord attached to the manacle on my ankle so it wouldn’t get caught on the bed post. It had tripped me once, and I’d dumped the gray sludge all over the dress I’d been put in that day.

.. I still remembered the punishment I’d received for wrecking that dress.

I placed the tray down on the small table that existed in the corner of my room, right beside the worn armchair with the faded green velvet fabric.

I smoothed my skirt as I sat down and tucked the provided napkin carefully across my chest so it would protect me from any spills.

I finished my meager dinner in less than ten bites, and the bitter taste made my stomach roll when it combined with the hunger that had been gnawing at me all day.

I drank the water that was also on the tray in three gulps, trying to wash away the taste.

Once I was finished, I folded the napkin back up and set it down beside the empty bowl.

My stomach continued to roll, and I took some deep breaths to try and calm myself, before getting up to walk back to the bed.

Whatever was in the sludge worked quickly, and I had learned that the hard way more than a few times, back when I was still fighting it.

My head was already starting to spin by the time I reached the bed, and I quickly sat down and swung my legs up, laying back to let the horrible drowsiness wash over me.

I tried to hold on to a good memory as my consciousness slipped away, to ease the fear that always began to creep in as the edges of reality started to fade away.

Tonight I thought about the last birthday party I’d had.

My best friend Amanda had gathered my friends together at my favorite bar, and we all toasted to turning thirty.

My boyfriend Josh had been there, and he’d given me a sweet necklace with a pentagram, which was his little joke because I’d been trying to explain to him what my class was about, but he hadn’t really understood it.

He’d tried, I guessed, that was what mattered.

I frowned, my eyelids drooping closed as I struggled to remember what had happened to that necklace. I hadn’t been wearing it the day I’d been taken, so maybe it was still in my little jewelry box, waiting for me to come home.

My name is Dahlia Porter.

I had grown to fear waking up. There was always a split second of relief when consciousness began to creep back in, and I became aware of myself in my body.

Relief that I was still alive, which I was sure was some biological response because honestly, waking up in this hell wasn’t much better than being dead.

Relief was almost immediately eclipsed by overwhelming panic, and I took deep, shuddering breaths to force it back down, choking back the sobs that threatened to bubble up.

I grounded myself using an exercise for anxiety that I’d learned back in school.

Keeping my eyes closed, I started by wiggling my toes, then rolling my ankles, allowing myself to focus on one body part at a time.

Part of this was practical, I needed to find out if there was any fresh damage to my body before I tried to move.

Today, I only found some soreness in my shoulders, which was a good sign that nothing was seriously hurt.

I blinked my eyes open and swallowed, my throat feeling stuffed with cotton balls thanks to whatever the drug was that knocked me out every night.

Today’s dress looked like something a housewife in the 50‘s would’ve worn—it was a lovely sky blue and had a matching checkered blue frilled apron.

A pair of cream colored heels were on my feet, and one touch of my hair told me it had been styled in large curls.

My hands shook and my stomach rolled, but I was used to this by now.

The first couple of mornings, when I’d woken up in different clothes and with unexplained soreness in my limbs and fresh bruises on my skin, I’d gotten physically sick with panic.

I forced myself to stop doing that when I realized that it just made things worse.

I sat up slowly, and pain seared across my back.

A gasp tried to work its way up my throat.

I bit my lip until I drew blood, stifling the sound before it escaped my lips, a small tear rolling down my cheek.

Not completely unscathed then, today would be rough.

I rolled carefully instead of sitting up to avoid straining my back.

I wished I had a mirror in here to check the damage, but I’d be punished if I tried to take off the clothes, so it didn’t matter anyway.

I shifted slowly until I got my feet on the floor, and used my arm to push myself up to sit, clenching my teeth to avoid making any noise.

My name is Dahlia Porter.

The more I thought about it, the more I missed teaching.

I pushed myself up off the bed slowly and shuffled over to the table where a small cup of water was waiting for me.

Each step was agony, the pain in my lower back burning hot with every movement.

Before, focus on Before . I was never that outgoing, and public speaking didn’t come naturally to me, but I loved my research and, if you gave me the chance, I could talk about it for hours.

To get paid to blather on about my interests was an amazing opportunity that I should’ve appreciated more.

I reached the table and grabbed the glass with a shaky hand, trying not to spill any as I brought it up to my lips.

The water felt wonderful on my dry throat, and I left myself a little sip for later, just in case.

Too tired to try and make it back to the bed, I sat down in the armchair, trying hard not to brush the injured part of me against the cushion.

A whimper was building up inside me, and I pushed it down until a new pain started behind my eyes.

My name is Dahlia Porter.

I didn’t understand why I was here or who was behind all of this.

I haven’t seen anyone, heard anything more than the odd creak of the floor above me, or interacted with anyone while I’ve been here, at least not while conscious.

There was at least one camera in the room, but whoever was watching me on the other end was a mystery.

I’d looked for a way out for a long time, plotting escape attempts as a way to stimulate my brain, but the mastermind behind this torture seemed to have thought of everything.

I couldn’t even scream for help, not with the shock collar that was locked around my throat.

Whoever had made this thing hadn’t had dogs in mind; I was sure it would fry anything smaller than a St. Bernard.

I had found out through awful trial and error that any noise out of my mouth caused immediate and excruciating pain.

The first time it happened I’d blacked out, and when I woke up I could actually smell my burnt flesh from where the electricity had cooked my skin.

The pain had lasted for an eternity, so I made sure to never trigger it again.