Chapter 35
Grace
My relative peace in the tiny hospital room only lasts a day or so.
The police come to talk to me, and I try to answer their questions while protecting Mikhail’s identity.
As I expected, they know who he is, and when they show me his photo, I almost start crying.
They must think they’re triggering my trauma because the photo immediately disappears and they leave the room.
The therapist or counselor, or whatever she is, is a sweet older woman who’s always smiling.
I haven’t talked much during her visits because I was certain that a wrong word would get me labeled as crazy and locked up somewhere, but she didn’t mind.
She talked about emotions, letting myself feel them, and reassured me that any reaction I have to the trauma I endured is okay because everyone processes things differently.
It helped, especially with dealing with the fact that I don’t really feel traumatized.
I’m just scared. Scared that I’ll never see Mikhail again and that I’ll have to go back to my normal life and figure everything out on my own.
I don’t want to figure things out on my own.
I want someone to decide for me and to just… be there for me.
I guess I know why they say to be careful what you wish for, because on the heels of that thought, disaster arrives.
I know I shouldn’t talk that way about my parents. They’re my parents and they love me, in their own way. But I’m just starting to pull myself together when my mother waltzes into the room and shatters what little peace I’ve had.
“Grace Foster!” she shouts, her heels click-clacking on the floor as she saunters over to my bed
Father stays in the doorway, watching me with disapproval, and I shrink in on myself, suddenly aware of my appearance.
I’m still wearing the ugly hospital gown, and my hair is all tangled up.
At least I have taken a shower. Several of them, and I scrubbed myself thoroughly, desperate to wash the last traces of Chernov and his men off my body.
“Grace!” My mother scowls at the simple plastic chair next to my bed like it personally offends her, and remains standing. “Where have you been? You had us all so worried.”
I blink once, slowly. Where have I been? “I’ve been kidnapped, Mother.” Has no one told her?
“Yes, yes,” she mumbles absently, waving her hand. “What a terrible thing.”
“I told you it was a bad idea to let her stay on that campus,” Father rumbles from the door.
Mother turns her scowl on him. “Well, how was I supposed to know this would happen? The place was supposed to be safe! Nevermind that,” she says.
The crease between her brows deepens as she looks at me again.
“Why are you still in bed, Grace? Here,” she thrusts a bag at me, “get dressed. And do something about that hair, will you? There are people around.”
“Yes, Mother.” Knowing there’s no point in arguing with her, I take the bag and make my way to the bathroom.
Fortunately, the nurses disconnected me from the machines this morning, so I’m free to move around without having to drag an IV stand behind me.
Also fortunately, Mother packed me a long-sleeved shirt and a pair of pants, which will at least hide the bruises on my arms and legs.
I’m certain Mother would consider them unsightly.
There’s also a hairbrush in the bag, and tears prick at my eyes as I stare at it.
When was the last time I brushed my own hair?
It must have been before the kidnapping, because once I became a Doll, Mikhail always did it for me.
I feel guilty as I guide the brush through my tangles, but what else am I supposed to do?
Mikhail isn’t here. It’s his own fault that he doesn’t get to brush my hair.
Wearing normal clothes feels strange, like I’m doing something I’m not supposed to.
After all, the rules clearly stated that Dolls are not allowed to wear clothing unless their Master commands it.
But am I still a Doll if my Master isn’t here?
I realize I’m probably insane for grieving the loss of my status as a sex toy, but if I’m not a Doll, then what am I?
Mother looks me up and down as I exit the bathroom, clearly not satisfied with my appearance but gracious enough not to comment on it. “Good. Come on, Grace. The parking fees here are outrageous. The sooner we get out of here, the better.”
Now it’s my time to frown. I didn’t realize we were leaving the hospital. “I’m not sure I’m allowed to leave.”
“Nonsense. I already talked to the doctors, and you just have to sign some papers. There’s absolutely no reason for you to stay here. You’re not sick to lounge in bed all day. You’ve missed so many classes!”
“Uh-huh.” Classes. I’m tempted to tell my mother I might have missed college classes but I was still getting education, but I don’t want to get yelled at so I follow my parents out of the room and then wait out the disapproving scowl contest between my mother and my doctor. My mother wins.
Grumbling about it being better for me to stay for a few more days, the doctor shows me a bunch of papers, which I sign without even reading them.
I don’t care what they say, and if I’m signing off on the hospital being allowed to harvest my organs and sell them to the highest bidder, then I hope whoever gets them makes good use of them.
I know I’m supposed to be surviving because that’s what Mikhail told me to do, but if he’s not coming for me, why should I listen to him?
Shortly after I was kidnapped, I promised myself that if I survived and got free, I would never go back to my old life.
That I’d leave my parents and start living on my own.
Now that I have survived and gotten free, that thought feels like a pipe dream.
What would I do on my own? How does one actually live a life?
I have no clue. My parents wouldn’t let me leave anyway.
They’d follow me to the ends of Earth, pestering me and staring me down until I returned home like the good girl I’m supposed to be but never was.
The ride home from the hospital is a blur, and then I’m in my room, slightly nauseous from how incredibly normal everything seems. Like nothing happened.
Like I haven’t been kidnapped and trafficked and taught to suck cock and take it up my ass.
Like I haven’t discovered a side of me that wants to serve and haven’t found the perfect Master.
There are textbooks and notebooks on my desk and my clothes are meticulously folded in my closet as if my life hasn’t been turned upside down in the past two weeks. Two weeks. It felt longer and yet not long enough.
“No moping, Grace,” Mother says. “You’ve missed a lot of classes, but I got in contact with your teachers and told them you were sick. They’ve been very accommodating.”
“Sick?”
“Well, yes. What else were we supposed to tell everyone? We didn’t know where you were, and it was horrible. We didn’t need people gossiping on top of that.”
“Gossiping,” I repeat dully.
Mother frowns. “Yes, you put us through quite an ordeal, young lady. All those questions… But we managed the situation with no one being the wiser, and the police said they wouldn’t reveal your identity to anyone, so it should be okay.
Of course, we’ve had to tell Mason, but he’s still willing to marry you, even after this… unfortunate situation.”
I snort. I know it will make Mother furious, but I can’t help it.
It’s just all too ridiculous. “Well, he should want to marry me. I’m an expert at sucking cocks now, although Mason likely doesn’t care about that since all he needs is a beard.
But really, Mother, this unfortunate situation gave me skills men would fall over to have in a wife.
If you want to sell me, advertise my proficiency in sexual services.
You’ll get more bidders than just Mason Dickens. ”
“GRACE!” Mother gasps so hard I’m surprised she doesn’t choke.
“Language! We do not talk like this in this house! In fact, we will not be talking about this ever again. What happened to you was unfortunate but really, you should have been more careful. The police said you were taken going to your dorm after dark. After dark, Grace! What did you expect would happen?”
“It’s November, Mother. It’s always dark.
And really, I didn’t expect much from you, but perhaps at least a hug?
A few comforting words?” I laugh bitterly even as I say it because my mother doesn’t do comforting.
Everyone in the hospital was nicer to me than my own parents, and isn’t that just sad?
Not wanting to fight, I turn my back to her.
“I’m going to bed. I have therapy tomorrow morning. ”
“I cancelled that. You will not be airing our dirty laundry with strangers. Like I said, we will never talk about what happened again. It’s done, and you’re here now. It’s time to go back to your life.”
I want to scream and throw stuff, but what would be the point? Nothing will ever change because I’m not strong enough to stand up for myself, and I don’t have anyone to do it for me. I escaped one dungeon only to be tossed into another, and isn’t that damn ironic?