Chapter 25
Violet
Time passes. I don’t know how much. Every morning, I wake up with a sore throat as if I’ve been crying in my sleep.
Is it possible to sob while sleeping and not wake up?
My dreams draw images of Dr. Ambrose in the room with me, his long cock like a funnel in my mouth, feeding me his cum.
The nightly visions are a cruel joke of his caress.
One day, a spider crawls in the corner of the room. It spins a web, careful with each thread, weaving its trap, its home.
I remember reading somewhere female spiders are more likely to make webs. This one is probably a female, then.
She becomes my entertainment. It’s the only relief I get from being lost in my own thoughts, in my obsession with Dr. Ambrose.
“You need a name,” I say to the spider. It stays still, waiting for its next meal. “How about Violet?”
I sigh. “Violet” isn’t the right name for a creature building a home and setting a trap. Not when every chance to kill the enemy slips through the threads.
“Alick?” I ask.
The spider shifts.
“Yes.” I smile. “Alick is more fitting.”
Hours become days. Days become weeks. Weeks become months.
Time seems to melt, a mix of liquids without any distinct layers.
I honestly don’t know how much time has passed.
Every once in a while, I see a blue sky through the window, hinting at the changing seasons, or during a shower, I sometimes catch a glimpse of my growing hair in a murky reflection.
A fly lands on the spider’s web. She dances over to her prey. The fly wriggles, but it’s stuck. Soon, the white threads wrap around the meal, securing it in place. The meal stops moving. It had an instinct, a will to survive. Now, it’s food.
That night, the spider crawls across the web to eat its meal, sucking the blood out of the food. The predator consumed the object. Maybe the fly feels better now. It served a purpose.
The next morning, Dr. Ambrose—no, Daddy—returns.
My chest inflates, my lips fluttering.
“Now, tell me,” he says. “Who am I speaking to?”
It reminds me of possession movies where the holy guide forces the demon to say its name. Tears well in my eyes. I want him to use me again so fucking badly.
“Freak,” I whisper.
“And what is your full title, freak?”
My brain is filled with him, only him. In a way, I am possessed.
Daddy stares at me, the promise of a smile on his lips. A deep ache strains through my legs. My pulse beats rapidly.
I can be what he wants me to be. I can do this.
“Disgusting freak,” I say.
Daddy claps triumphantly. Relief finally breaks through, and my tears stream down. I laugh, giddy with excitement. I finally did something right.
“Good girl,” he says.
I spread my legs, thrusting my hips forward. “Please, Daddy. Fuck your—”
“I did promise you an orgasm, didn’t I?” He chuckles. “But there are a few more tests to be done before we can finally bring you home.”
We.
Home.
The words are a lighthouse in front of rocky cliffs. I swim and swim, reaching for them.
“Whatever you say,” I whisper.
A smirk prickles Daddy’s lips.
His contentment fills me with joy.
“You’re not just any disgusting freak, you know,” he murmurs. “You are my disgusting freak. And look how well you’ve taken to it.”
The air is pushed from my lungs. That single, possessive word glued to the front of my title makes it better.
I’m not any freak. I’m his freak.
And he’s proud of me.