32. Liliana
M y head feels hazy, my eyes struggle for a moment to open, and all I can focus on is the softness of what is surrounding me.
It smells good too. I feel like I’m floating. Like I’ve somehow lost all sense of gravity and my body has no weight whatsoever.
And then it all comes back. Every horrific moment.
I blink more rapidly, realising that that comforting embrace is a duvet. That I’m in a bed, an actual bed. As I roll over, as I take in the fancy surroundings, my mind still can’t commute what is going on. It’s like I’m so used to the darkness I can’t even register the light.
“You’ re awake.”
His voice sends the fear of God into me. I gasp, whimpering, as my eyes immediately find his across the room.
He’s sat in an armchair, looking like he’s been there for some time. As he gets up and moves towards me, I shrink back, but my body still won’t obey me. My left leg feels like it’s too heavy, and my shoulder joints are so painful every slight movement is torture.
My breath hitches, my heart thumps in my chest as he closes the distance and leans right over me. With one hand, he slaps me hard across the cheek.
“Only I get to decide when this ends,” he says. “Not you. Your life belongs to me. Do you understand?”
I want to reply, to say something clever, or defiant even, but my words seem to get lost on my tongue and it’s all I can do to hold his gaze. So much disappointment swirls inside me because I’m still alive, still here, still stuck in this horrific situation.
He grips my face, tightening his fingers around my jaw as he silently demands an answer.
Through my puckered lips I whisper the word ‘yes,’ but I hate myself for that syllable. I hate myself for the brief moment of submission.
With a small smirk, he drops his hold, but he stays where he is, towering over me.
Something on my chest burns. I can feel the way my skin protests.
He branded me.
God, that happened, too. Right before I fled, right before I threw myself out of that window.
My anger flares, perhaps my stupidity does too. I clench my fists, knowing that he’s going to make me pay for this, but I don’t care, even now, even after everything he’s done, I’m not broken, at least not entirely and I need him to know it.
“I hate you.” I hiss .
His lips curl. Like always, I wonder if those words are music to his ears. That he enjoys my hate as much as he enjoys abusing my body.
“I would rather die than let you touch me again and I will do it, I will kill myself.”
He tuts, grabbing my jaw once more. “Unfortunately for you, you don’t get to make those decisions. You’re my pet, my plaything. You’ll live as long as I decide, you’ll endure…”
Whatever words of torment he says seem to fade as my mind starts to drift. It doesn’t really matter what he says anyway, this all remains the same. I am his plaything, his pet, I’ll endure whatever he does to me because there are no other options available, no escape to be had.
He loosens his grip, moving to the end of the bed. “You’re to stay in this room, there’s a bathroom beyond that door you can use. If you take one step outside, you’ll be punished, do you hear me?”
Punished more than I have been? Tortured more than he’s done already? His threats feel almost empty, only, I know they’re not. I don’t doubt Magnus has far more creative ways of hurting me, he’s just waiting for the opportunity.
I sink back into the pillows, grateful at least for this tiny improvement in my situation.
When he leaves me to it, I let out a low breath. I half expected him to drag me back down to the basement, to that same dark prison he’s kept me in, and I can’t seem to understand why I am here, what the purpose of this is? Is this a new game, give me a tiny glimmer of hope, and then snatch it away? Or does he feel guilty? Has my suicide attempt actually affected him?
No, it can’t be. The man has no conscience. I know that much.
My eyes dart about the room, taking in the polished furniture, the marble fireplace, the ridiculously ornate mirror, just the sheer luxury of the space. It’s so different from the other bedroom he took me too. I guessed most of his house would be like this, grand, opulent, but it still surprises me that I’ve not been put in the equivalent of the servants’ quarters. Stored away somewhere discreet until I’m recovered enough to return to my basement hell once more.
As I try to sit up, my arms protest, my leg refuses to cooperate, but I’m busting for a wee. My bladder feels so full that I might actually lose all control of it, and I doubt Magnus will be pleased to come back and find that I’ve pissed all over the bed.
With all the strength I have, I swing my legs around and push off the mattress, but within seconds the floor comes hurtling towards me and I faceplant into the softest, plushest carpet I have ever encountered.
White hot pain shoots up my leg, I let out a defeated cry but I drag myself up, practically crawl across the room to where the bathroom is and, with the little strength I have left, I manage to finally clamber onto the toilet and mercifully relieve myself.
I guess the doctors must have fixed me up down there too because I can feel the stitches, I can feel the way all those awful tears are now healing inside me.
I don’t know how long I’ve been out, but it’s clear that it’s been a few days. Did Magnus keep me sedated all that time? That thought is not comforting in the slightest.
Once I’m done peeing, I realise I have to make it the whole way back and right now, that feels as unachievable as climbing a mountain. Baby steps. That’s all I need. One step, then another…
I freeze as my eyes catch sight of myself in the mirror. It’s the first time I’ve seen my reflection since they took me, since he took me. My skin is so pale, I have great dark circles under my eyes and my left one is still slightly swollen from where I was punched. You can see I’ve been starved. My breasts are bruised from how they were bound up but my nipples look normal, they don’t look like they’re going to drop off anymore. My hair, my beautiful hair is gone, and though it’s started to grow back, my scalp is still clearly visible under the tuffs of red that seems to have sprouted.
I look horrendous.
I look as bruised and battered as I feel.
And then my eyes drop to appraise my body, to see all the scars and damage that’s been inflicted there. There’s a bandage over my breastbone and the constant throbbing beneath is another reminder of what’s been done. That he branded me, he seared his family’s crest into my skin like I’m some object he can possess.
I guess in his mind that’s exactly what I am. A thing. A belonging.
I clench my jaw and even my teeth feel brittle like they might crumble if I bite too hard. There isn’t a brush on the side, but I’d give just about anything to clean them right now. I guess I’ll just have to settle for rinsing my mouth out.
With my hands, I shakily catch the water as it flows and gulp it down, suddenly so aware of how thirsty I am. Obviously whatever drugs I’ve been given are starting to wear off, that or I’m just coming back to my senses.
Telling myself that the drink was enough, I turn and stumble towards the doorframe, using it to keep me up. My left leg is pretty much useless, and I have to put all my weight on my right only I don’t have the strength or the bravery to hop.
God, this was stupid. I should have just stayed in the bed. I should have just ignored my damned bladder, but if I had, I very well could have pissed myself and I know Magnus would have been furious at that.
I can feel the sweat on my brow, I can feel what little energy I have seeping away. The bed feels like it’s a million miles from me, that I have to cross an entire desert to make it. I gulp, repeating over and over that I can do it, that it’s not that big a deal, that once I’m there, I can sleep .
But another jarring step stops me in my tracks and my chest heaves with the bitter realisation of how utterly broken my body truly is, while a snide voice in my head whispers that I’ll never recover, never be the person I was before.
That I’m irrevocably damaged now.
That even if these wounds heal, even when my leg is mended, my soul will still be fractured.
My right arm has a long, awful wound that traces right up to my elbow where I tore my flesh open with that broken fragment of glass. They’ve stitched it back up, stitched me back up, patched me up like a rag doll. Once it heals fully, I know that scar will be there for life, acting as a constant reminder of where I failed. Of the chance squandered.
“You should be in bed.”
I jolt, my eyes darting up in fear, even though I know it’s not him .
“What, what are you doing here?” I gasp as I meet his butler’s gaze. He shakes his head slightly, taking in my naked body and though I should be used to it now, I still feel another wave of shame. That I’m exposed, that I’m no better than an animal right now, with everything on display.
He holds out his arm, taking my weight and practically carries me across the room while I try my best not to recoil or fight. As he helps me get into the bed, I swear I see a flash of something akin to pity, but that could also just be my desperate mind clinging to something I know no longer exists.
“You need to keep off this leg,” he states.
“Why are you here?” I whisper.
He shakes his head again, murmuring that he’s not meant to be talking to me. That he’s under strict instructions not to utter a word.
“Please…” The word escapes my mouth, but I’m not begging for help, I’m not asking him to get me out of here, I just need to understand what the fuck is going on.
Why am I here? Why am I not back in that basement? What the fuck does this mean? And more to the point, what does he have planned for me now? What awful things lay in my future?
I can’t speak those questions out loud, I can’t form any articulate words and yet, I know that he knows what I’m thinking, what I need.
He lets out a low breath, walking over to where he’s placed a tray of food and he brings it back, making a point of gesturing for me to eat. My mouth waters at the sight of it, even though it’s pretty basic. There’s a small bowl of soup, some boiled vegetables, and some plain looking chicken. All of it looks measured out, as though someone has specifically decided the portion size. There’s no cutlery either. Just tiny bite-sized pieces.
Is that Magnus’s new plan? Feed me up. Fix me up. Make me as shiny and new as he can before he once more shatters me into a million pieces? I can’t help the shudder at that thought.
The butler raises an eyebrow at me as if silently questioning my reaction, but I decide not to respond. If he won’t speak to me, then there’s little point divulging my thoughts, is there? So instead, I eat in silence. I have to pick the soup bowl up and slurp it. I chew as quietly as I can, fearful that perhaps this isn’t actually permitted, and any minute Magnus is going to storm in here and snatch this precious meal away from me like he’s snatched everything else I’ve ever held dear.
When I’m done, he takes the tray and leaves. He doesn’t say another word. Doesn’t utter a single syllable.
And then I’m alone again.
Relief, confusion on some level, and grief hits me as I lay back down. I don’t understand what is happening. I don’t understand any of this. My mind feels like it’s running at a million miles a minute trying to figure this, desperately seeking an answer so that I can prepare, so that I can be ready.
But hours past. The whole day seems to pass and no one comes back. No one breaks the solitude. I lay there, too afraid, and in truth, too weak to do anything but simply feel each second ebb into nothing.
I guess I should be grateful for this brief reprieve and on some level I am.
But I was happy to die.
Content with it. I’d made my peace, I’d come to terms with the fact that this was how I would go, that I’d lay there, bleeding out and while the pain was unbearable, on some level it was calm. It was okay.
I was at peace. I was ready.
I wanted to die.
And yet again, he wouldn’t let me.