Chapter 7
I take the elevator to the fourth floor of the student health department and check in with the nurse at the front desk. She says I’m here to see a therapist. I nod as if I understand, but I don't know why John would make me an appointment when I’ve already lied to the last one about using drugs, having nightmares, or being in a harmful relationship.
I sit in one of the empty chairs closest to the exit. I expected to see more people, but the entire waiting room is deserted. The walls are painted white, like a glass of milk. There are no pictures, no table with magazines, or anything to keep you entertained. There are only two doors and one window: one door for the exit, one for the back rooms, and the window looks out at an elderly woman who appears to be a grandmother.
When my name is called, I walk in and see a woman seated behind a cherry wood desk. Her hands are neatly folded on top, as if she’s praying. She wears a red silk blouse and pearls around her neck, her expression serious, as if this is the last thing she wants to do.
“You must be Rose.”
“Yes.”
She points to the only available chair against the wall. I find it odd that it’s so far away from her desk. She doesn’t have the customary two chairs facing her desk, as I’ve seen in other offices.
I sit.
She leans back and doesn’t say anything, watching me like I’m an animal she’s studying.
“I’m Dr. Wick.”
“I’m Rose.”
“I think we’ve established that.”
I want to tell her that I was informed I would see a therapist, not a psychiatrist, and that there must be some mistake about why I’m here, but I keep my mouth shut. The last thing I want is for John to find out I’m asking too many questions. There’s no such thing as client privacy when it comes to me. Girls like me don’t have human rights. We’re selected like cattle and then caged.
“I would like to ask you a few questions, and then you can ask me anything you like.”
“Okay.” The faster I get out of here, the better. I don’t trust this woman. She works here and is hired by monsters who run this place. Who knows what her angle with me is?
“There have been reports from dorm security that you have had issues sleeping?”
I blink a few times, convinced there must be some kind of mistake. How could dorm security know anything about my sleeping habits? My door is always closed, and I hardly see security. There are times I didn’t even think we had any. I’m still trying to figure out how Garret found me, but he’s not someone you can easily ask questions.
“I’m not sure what you mean.”
“It’s not uncommon. There are students who have nightmares. They scream in their sleep without being aware, and out of concern, other students report it. Security sends it to the school, and then it’s forwarded here to the health department. We take these types of reports seriously.”
I want to laugh in her face. Does she know what kind of school this is and what they do to the less fortunate trapped here under the pretense of higher education and a promise of a better life? Of course she does. This woman is no better than a demon foaming at the mouth, telling you to screw yourself for her enjoyment. There is no question; this bitch is evil. How dare she call herself a doctor.
I raise a brow. “And? I had a stupid nightmare. What's the big deal?”
“Does this happen often? If so, what do you have nightmares about?”
“I don’t remember,” I fib.
Of course, I remember John violating me. I remember being force-fed when I refused to eat, raped, humiliated, touched, and drugged. But is she going to do about it?
“Do you have trouble sleeping?”
“You just said I have nightmares.”
Is she dumb?
She lets out a frustrated sigh. “How was your childhood?”
She wants to go there. What a bitch.
“I was adopted.” I smile sarcastically. “But I’m sure you already knew that.”
She smiles back, but the lines don’t crease around her eyes. “I did, but I want to see what you remember about your past.”
I shrug. “Nothing really. I was adopted when I was a kid.”
“Do you remember your parents?” she asks, ready to type my answer on a keyboard.
Pain slices through my chest, wishing I knew, but I don’t. I never will. The numbers on my skin told me the truth a long time ago when I pieced it all together.
Girls who had fallen pregnant when they were taken by rich sick fucks would give birth, and those babies were taken to a building in the middle of nowhere with minimal care. The children were undocumented—boys, girls, it doesn’t matter.
When they’re old enough, they’re placed in a room to be drugged and raped. When they’re selected to be so-called adopted by a rich family, documents appear, and the child thinks this family is their savior. The father a hero, the mother a saint. But none of it is real. There is no hero. There is no saint. It’s just one sick man from hell with a twisted appetite. Then they take you wherever they came from. As for me, they brought me to the states.
“No, I don’t.”
She asks me how much money I have while I’m on campus and whether my meals are covered. I find her questions a bit odd, but I answer them as best I can. She inquiries about my last physical. I’ve never had a formal one, so I tell her I don't remember.
She then sends me to the next room to get one and to see a gynecologist for birth control. I should fight her on this but in my case, it isn't a bad thing. I would like to be checked anyway.
A woman with dark brown hair walks in and say her name is Dr. Mullen. I mention that I have an IUD, but says she will check anyway. Maybe it' it's because I’m Prey, and this has nothing to do with John but rather the order. Perhaps they require all females to be on some type of contraceptive. I imagine the last thing they want is a bunch of poor kids with rich babies in their stomachs, messing up their bloodlines.
John told me he had one placed when I was unconscious so I wouldn’t get pregnant. I felt relieved. I overheard some girls had their reproductive organs removed.
I’m on the examining table; the woman’s head is positioned between my legs, with my heels resting on two metal supports at the end of the table. I feel a tug between my legs. I tilt my head to the side, and watch her as she removes her gloves, but catch a glimpse of bloody fluid on the tips.
“Is there something wrong?” I ask in alarm. Maybe John or someone ruined my insides, or I have some type of disease.
“Everything is fine. The bloody discharge is normal. Your IUD is intact. If you want to regulate your period, it’s best to start taking your birth control at the beginning of your cycle.”
I want to tell her my cycle is fine, but I’m eager to leave. I’m uncomfortable and want to take a shower. I never expected this visit and don’t know who to believe.
I grab my pills from the lady at the front and head toward my dorm building. My stomach drops when my phone goes off. I stare at the screen in horror.
John: Get in the car outside your dorm building.
I look up at the loading zone in front of the building and see a blacked-out Escalade idling.
The SUV drops me off in front of the massive entrance of John and Mary’s home. I stare at the dark brown double doors like it’s a prison and I’m to be sent to the electric chair. I’m not sure why he wants me here during the week. He said weekends, but he skipped last weekend, so maybe he wants to make up for lost time.
The door opens.
The woman who cleans the house doesn’t look me in the eyes. She must think I’m disgusting for the things John does and says when she’s hovering around. She must think I like it because I don’t protest when deep inside, I’m screaming to die.
“Hello, Georgina,” I greet, like I do every time.
She turns around, dismissing me like she always does, but I don’t care. I hoped maybe one day she would have mercy on me, but I know she won’t.
The faint smell of food and coffee makes my stomach churn. My appetite is gone. It’s a familiar feeling I’ve grown accustomed to when I’m in this house. Who would feel hungry when they’re a sex slave?
My hands tremble around the torn strap of my bookbag. The deeper I follow her down the long hallway, the louder the voices.
She turns into the dining room with the massive table for fifteen. The cream marble floors with blood-red veins. The grotesque red curtains Mary insisted on draping over the oversized windows.
I hate this house.
I hate the people and the furniture.
“There she is,” John says when Georgina moves to the side.
“You didn’t tell me, Mother, that my sister was so petite and small,” a voice that could only belong to Garret says warmly.
My throat goes dry remembering the taste of his breath. The look on his face when he came. This is a joke. I’ve never seen Garret set foot in this house. We both know he doesn’t see me as a sister.
“Sit,” Mary says, coldly watching me like I’m a fly she wants to squash. “I wouldn’t call her your sister.”
“Well, stepsibling,” Garret says with a smile, but I can tell he doesn’t find it amusing.
He’s wearing a fitted blue sweater that outlines the muscles of his pecs, doing nothing to hide the mural of tattoos on his neck reaching his jawline. I sit across from Garret, next to John, but he isn’t having it.
“Why don’t you sit next to me so we can get to know each other better?” Garret’s gaze slides to John. I can feel the tension radiate between them. John’s eyes turn cold, like he wants nothing more than to reach across the massive table and rip his throat out, but Garret doesn’t seem fazed. He continues to watch John closely, daring him to object.
Mary smiles triumphantly. And me? I don’t know if I should be happy or terrified. One monster or the other. Two of Satan’s most powerful demons facing off.
I don’t have to be told to move to the other side and take the seat right next to Garret. I sit, and when I inhale the scent of his cologne, my heart starts to beat like a thousand drums in a parade. He moves his hands from the table to his thighs.
My gaze drops to the back of one of his hands with a skull. The veins disappearing under the edge of the sleeve. His clean fingernails. The black nail polish gone, replaced by a clean manicure.
“Have you seen each other on campus?” Mary asks, but I know why she’s asking.
“It’s obvious I haven’t. I’ve been busy with swimming and…”
“The orgies at those parties you like to throw,” John interrupts. “You’ve heard,” Garret replies, but his gaze is scrutinizing him like darts aiming at a bullseye. “You can come if you want to, John. It might be your kind of party.”
Mary sucks in a breath.
I swallow, staring at the plate in front of me as Georgina comes beside me and places a piece of meat that smells like dirty socks on my plate. John glances at me and then at Garret, measuring the distance between our chairs. Jealousy and possession drip from his scrutiny like a blazing fire. “Oh, Garret, you’re so funny sometimes,” Mary chuckles, trying to play it off like it’s a joke. Garret tilts back his head and laughs, and it strokes my skin like a caress. How can a laugh be so beautiful yet so dangerous? “I’m fucking with you, John,” he says, but I’m not sure John’s convinced. This is the first time I’ve seen John uncomfortable, and it’s almost like he’s terrified of Garret. “How’s school and swimming? Any girlfriends?” Mary asks genuinely, her knife and fork cutting into the meat with precision. I think she cares about Garret and what he thinks, but with who she married, I’m not so sure. I wonder what Garret’s father was like. Was he like Garret or John? “I’m beating my time. I think we will go all the way again this year. And her name is Cassie.”
The bitter taste of his lie burns, like embers smoldering beneath my ribs, flaring into something foreign. He lied! My stomach clenches. What type of girlfriend lets her boyfriend stay in the library with his cock out with another girl after he dismisses her? “You have to bring her by so we can meet her,” Mary gushes, as if he just told her he’s getting married. I stare at my plate but feel empty. A waste of space. I don’t even know why they bother letting me dine at the table with them. I’m always sent to my room to eat. I don’t even know which fork goes with what or why the hell this meat looks like human brains. “Rose?” I look up and meet John’s impenetrable gaze. “Eat,” he scolds, like I’m a child. I pick up the smallest fork. “Wrong fork,” Mary snaps. I drop it like I’ve been slapped. “I-I’m sorry,” I stammer, knowing that John will make me pay for it later. “Mary.” But it’s not John scolding her; it’s Garret. “Give her a break.”
“She needs to eat. I’ve told John she needs to see a doctor for her eating disorder. She’s skin and bones.” John stares at her like she revealed a secret, but she goes off, knowing John wouldn’t disrespect Mary in front of Garret. “He’s complained about it before.” John turns his focus on me like he’s just found out I stole his car as she continues her rant. “She’s always had a problem eating since she was little.”
“Isss that sooo,” Garret says, his voice dripping with sarcasm, each syllable stretched out like a rubber band being pulled. His gaze flicks to me like I’m under a spotlight, the heat of his stare sinking into my bones. His hand is on my thigh, and I swear my breathing stops. “I’ll have to make sure she eats then,” Garret says, like I’m not even in the room. The heat from his hand spreads like smoke between my thighs. He’s so close yet so far. I don’t know if I should shove it away or stand. But then, John will know, and he’ll make sure it won’t happen again. “I give her money for meals, and she’s on the meal plan at school,” John counters.
“The food at school is disgusting,” Garret states. He isn’t wrong. The food looks like it’s about to expire. It’s not meant for the wealthy but for prey. “How much money are you giving her?”
“I beg your pardon?” John says accusingly, like his card was just declined. “Money?” Garret says, as if he’s stupid and hard of hearing. “How much money are you giving her?”
I want to hide under the table.
He could ask me, but Garret knows I won’t tell him, and I’m trying to figure out why he suddenly cares. “Enough,” John bellows harshly.
“Oh honey, she has everything she needs. I know you always wanted a sister or brother, but…”
“You were too busy taking them out of your stomach so you wouldn’t get fat,” Garret interjects, taking a sip of his wine.
Mary places her knife down with a clank. “It’s not my fault I’m fertile. Your father wanted more children and forbade me to be on any contraceptive. I had a son like he wanted.”
“What is so wrong with him wanting more?”
I can feel the anger building, a ten-foot wave wanting to destroy the little fake charade she has going with John. I glance at Garret’s plate. He hasn’t touched the food either. “I’ve had enough of you.” She’s an even bigger monster when she smiles at John as he pours himself another scotch. “John understands. He doesn’t want children. Besides, we have Rose.”
I want to gag. She’s delusional.
Garret throws his napkin onto the meat, the blood bleeding through the white linen. “I gotta go.”
“Already?” Mary cries. “But…you just got here.”
“I’ve been here for the past hour, Mary.”
“But you haven’t eaten your food,” she whines.
“It looks like shit.”
“It’s liver,” she explains as if it’s a delicacy. “And I’m sure it tastes like shit,” he replies dryly. “It is why Rose hasn’t touched hers, and I don’t blame her.” The chair screams when he pushes it back to stand. “I’ll drop off Rose.”
Why is he defending me?
“ That’s unnecessary,” John argues, placing his scotch glass on the wood with a thud. “I don’t think you have a choice,” Garret replies scathingly.
Mary glances between John and Garret with wide eyes.
“Let’s go, Rose.” And he walks out. I don’t wait; I grab my bag from the floor and rush out before someone stops me.
The front door slams behind me. I look at the massive driveway and spot him getting into a shiny blacked-out car with two huge letter Rs on the hood. I move to the passenger side and hesitate to pull on the handle. The engine rumbles, and then he’s stepping out and walking around the front. He pushes me back gently, pulls the handle, and the smell of rich leather hits me like a caress.
I look up, and his face is hard. Angry. “Get in,” he demands.
I slide in, not knowing if this is what I should be doing. My mind and body battle over what is the right thing to do: leave with him or stay and face John. I don’t get to decide because Garret is placing the car in drive, pulling out of the driveway. I stare at the screen on his dash, then at his hands and the way they grip the steering wheel. The skull tattoo mocks me with its smile. I sit rigid, afraid to lean back and tarnish his car. It’s beautiful, like him. It reminds me of an enchanting, rare black butterfly that’s poisonous if you touch it.
“Just so we’re clear,” he mutters harshly. “I’m not your brother.”