18. Josie
My head was spinning from the way it had slammed against the floor. My ankle felt like it was in a fire, the chain had yanked me back so hard I was sure something inside had snapped.
Tristan—no, the man I thought was Tristan—lay over me. He was bleeding, a thick, dark red line of it crawling down his neck from where I had hit him, but he didn't seem to care.
His body was a wall of hard, hot muscle pressing me down into the mattress. His forearm was a lead pipe across my collarbone, pinning me so firmly I could only take small, shallow sips of air.
"Zane?" I whispered.
I saw the change in his eyes the moment I said it. He tilted his head, watching me with a look of calm, cold joy. He looked at my naked body, at the heavy iron chain, and at my shaking hands. He looked happy.
"You don't remember me," he said.
His voice was different. The warmth was gone. The kindness I had fallen in love with had been replaced by a sound so sharp it made my skin crawl.
I had spent years in therapy. I had cried until I was sick, begging them to believe me. I had been told I was broken, that my memories were just lies my brain told me. Eventually, I had believed them. I had buried him. I had told myself Zane was never real, I had made him up.
And now, he was pressing the air out of my lungs.
I started to shake my head, my hair slapping against my wet cheeks. My heart was hitting my ribs so hard it hurt. "No," I whispered, the word shaking as it left my lips. "No, you’re not real. I... I imagined you. You’re a nightmare. You have to be a nightmare."
I thought about the years of white rooms and soft chairs.
I thought about the doctors who leaned in and told me I had a very active imagination.
I remembered my mother’s face, tight and sad, as she told me that the boy in the shed—the boy named Alex—was just a friend I had made up because I was lonely.
He isn't real, Josephine, they had told me. He was a dream. A trick your mind played on you after the accident. I had spent years in therapy. I had cried and screamed, begging them to believe me. I had eventually forced myself to believe them.
I had buried Alexander Van Alen in a deep, dark part of my brain and told myself he was an imaginary friend, a cloud, a lie.
And now, here he was.
"Oh, I am very much real, Josephine," he murmured, "I am the solid floor beneath you and the iron biting into your ankle. I am the hunger in your stomach and the cold in your bones."
He shifted, his forearm pressing harder until I had to gasp, my back arching off the bed. He looked down at me with a look of bored disgust, watching me struggle for air like a fish out of water.
"You will learn how real I am soon enough," he said, "Every minute of every day, I will be there to remind you. I am going to turn your world into a living, breathing hell, I'm going to make you wish I was still just an imagination in your head."
I stared into his eyes, the shock freezing the blood in my veins. The man everyone said was a lie was holding me captive. The man they said was a dream was the one who had chained me.
"The nightmare is only just starting," he added, "And this time, Josephine, you don't get to wake up."
He stayed there for a long minute, pinning my trembling body into the mattress. I felt every inch of his weight, a crushing force that reminded me I was small and trapped.
Slowly, he shifted. He pulled his body off me, but he didn't move away. The arm that had been crushing my collarbone straightened, and he placed his palm flat against the center of my chest. I couldn't move. I could only watch through a blur of tears as his hand began to move.
He slid his palm down. It traveled through the valley between my breasts, over the sharp cage of my ribs, and down to my stomach, which was still tight and cramping from fear.
He didn't stop. His hand slid lower, over my hip, until it rested heavily between my legs.
My heart was a wild, dying bird in my chest. I squeezed my eyes shut so tight it hurt, the tears streaming down the sides of my face and soaking into the pillow.
I held my breath, my body turning to stone as I waited for the final violation.
But the touch vanished.
He pulled his hand away suddenly, as if my skin were a hot stove that had burned him. I heard the fabric of his trousers rustle as he slid his hands deep into his pockets. He stood there at the edge of the bed, looking down at me.
"You're not going anywhere, Josephine," he said, "This room is your whole world now. But you can choose how we do this. You can make your stay here a lot more comfortable, or you can keep fighting and see how much more I can take away."
I let out a broken sniffle and immediately curled into a tight ball. I pulled my knees to my chest, trying to hide myself, trying to disappear. I shook my head over and over, my hair sticking to my wet cheeks.
"It’s a simple deal," he stated, "All you have to do is be a good girl. It’s not hard. You eat when I tell you to eat. You sleep and wake up exactly when I say so. And you open your legs for me whenever I feel like it. Simple as that."
He let out a short, cruel huff of breath that sounded almost like a laugh.
"That doesn’t sound so bad, does it? We both know you can't get enough of it. I know how much you enjoy taking my cock. You were screaming for it just a few days ago. Don't act like a virgin now just because you know my real name."
I sobbed harder, my shoulders shaking so violently the bed frame rattled. I felt sick. I felt like I wanted to peel my own skin off. Every memory of us together felt like poison moving through my blood.
"You make me happy," he continued, "And in return, you get privileges. Clothes. Food, a real meal instead of just broth. Maybe you even want some books to keep that pretty head of yours busy so you don't go crazy again?"
He leaned down, his voice dropping to a terrifying crawl over my skin.
"Behave, and you get to live like a human being. Fight me, and I’ll treat you like the dog you were eating like a few minutes ago. The choice is yours, Josephine. But remember, the chain only gets shorter from here."
My stomach turned over in a violent wave of nausea. I stared at him, my eyes wide and stinging, as the truth settled into my bones.
Van Alen.
It was my name. It was the blood in my veins. And if he was Alexander Van Alen...
I looked at him through the blur of my tears. I looked at the line of his jaw and the depth of his eyes. I looked at the man I had let touch me, the man I had allowed to claim every inch of me in the dark, the man I had given everything to.
A sharp sob tore out of my throat, but it sounded more like a choke.
"You're... you're my brother," I whispered, the words feeling like poison on my tongue.
Every memory of us together over the last few months began to distort, twisting into something hideous and deformed. I thought of his hands on my skin. I thought of the way I had arched into him, the way I had called his name—his fake name—in the heat of the night.
I felt a sudden, desperate urge to scrub my skin until it bled. I wanted to reach inside my body and tear out every part of me that had ever wanted him.
"You're my brother," I said again, my voice rising into a high, broken wail. I pulled the sheets up, hiding my body as if I could shield myself from the truth that was already inside me, "Zane... how? How could you do that? How could you touch me?"
I looked at him with a new kind of terror, a deep, soul-crushing disgust that made my skin itch. I wasn't just his prisoner anymore, I was a participant in something so foul I couldn't even find a word for it.
"I'm your sister!" I screamed, the sound echoing off the empty, cold walls of the closet, "We have the same blood! How could you... how could you lay with me? How could you let me..."
I couldn't even finish the sentence. I leaned over the edge of the bed, my body racking with dry heaves. There was nothing in my stomach but the broth and the water I had drunk, but I felt like I was trying to vomit up my entire soul.
I looked back at him, my face twisted in a mask of pure revulsion. He stood there, so calm, so still.
"You're a monster," I hissed, the disgust dripping from my voice, "You knew. The whole time, you knew who I was. You knew what we were. And you still... you still did it. And you're standing there telling me you're going to keep doing it? That you still intend to... to use me like that?"
I shrunk away from him, pressing my back against the cold headboard, the iron chain clinking mockingly at my feet.
He tilted his head to the side, watching me with a look of dark, quiet interest.
"Is that the game we’re playing now, Josephine?" he asked, "You’re really going to sit there, and pretend you don't know? You honestly don't remember a single thing, or are you just trying to act fucking innocent so you can feel better?"
The thoughts of him finishing on my face every single time made my stomach heave again.
I felt a hot, burning shame wash over me, turning my skin bright red.
Every time his hands had moved over me, every time I had leaned into his touch, every kiss we had shared.
.. it all felt like a thick, oily film covering my body.
I had slept with my own brother. I had loved him. I had wanted him.
The disgust was so heavy I couldn't breathe. I felt like I was rotting from the inside out.
"Get out!" I screamed. The sound was wild, tearing from my throat until it felt like I was breathing glass, "Get out! Leave me alone! Don't look at me! Just go!"
I grabbed the pillow and threw it at him with all my strength, but it just bounced off his chest and fell uselessly to the rug.
I scrambled back until my head hit the wall, my fingers clawing at the sheets to hide myself from his eyes.
I wanted to scream until my lungs gave out.
I wanted to scrub my memory clean until there was nothing left of him.
"You’re sick!" I wailed, "How can you stand there and look at me? Get out of here! Please, just leave me alone!"
He didn't look angry that I had screamed at him. Instead, a slow smile pulled at the corners of his mouth. He looked at my shaking shoulders and my tear-stained face, and he actually looked like he was enjoying the show.
My misery was a gift to him.
"You're in no position to tell me where to go, Josephine," he said quietly. He reached out and adjusted his cuffs, "But I think I've seen enough of this little tantrum for one morning."
He turned and walked toward the door, his boots thumping softly on the floorboards. He stopped at the threshold, his hand resting on the wood of the doorframe. He looked back over his shoulder, his eyes cold and unfeeling.
"I’ll leave you to your thoughts," he said, "Let’s see how you feel after another twenty-four hours in the dark. Maybe you’ll have cooled down by then. Maybe you’ll suddenly find that missing memory of yours."
He stepped out and slammed the door. I heard the heavy click of the lock, and then the sound of his footsteps fading away.
I curled into the smallest ball I could, wishing the world would just open up and swallow me whole.
I had stopped crying for hours now.
I sat on the edge of the bed, my fingers digging into the mattress until my nails ached.
He thought he had won. He thought that by taking my clothes, my food, and my dignity, he could turn me into a loyal pet.
He thought I would sit here, wagging my tail and waiting for him to tell me when to breathe.
He was wrong.
Every time I thought about what he had done, a wave of sick heat rolled through me but I didn't let it drown me.
I stood up, the chain rattling against the floor. I ignored the sting in my ankle. I began to move through the room, my eyes darting over every inch of the walls and the furniture. I needed something. A tool. A blade. Anything that could bite into the iron or bite into him.
I went to the small dresser, pulling the drawers out and dumping the few items of clothing onto the floor.
Nothing. I checked the underside of the bed frame, my fingers searching for a loose bolt or a sharp piece of metal.
Nothing. I looked at the broken pieces of the ceramic bowl near the window.
I picked up a large shard, its edge white, but it felt too small, too weak against a man like him.
I stood in the center of the room, my breath coming in fast, hot puffs. I wouldn't give up. There had to be a way out. Every cage has a weak spot.
My eyes landed on the large oil painting hanging on the far wall. It was a dark, gloomy landscape, trees with no leaves and a sky that looked like bruised skin.
I walked over to it, my fingertips caught the bottom of the heavy gold frame. I pushed. I shoved the painting to the side. It groaned against the wall, sliding on a metal track I hadn't seen before.
My heart skipped a beat.
Hidden in a hollowed-out space in the wall, held in place by two leather straps, was a handgun. It was black and beside it, tucked into a small slot, was an extra magazine.
I reached up, my hands shaking as I unbuckled the straps. The weight of the gun surprised me. It felt real. It felt like power. I brought it down to my chest, my fingers tracing the cold trigger guard.
My mother had taken me to the range my whole teenage years. Slide back. Check the chamber. Safety off. I pulled the slide back with a sharp clack-clack. A brass casing glinted in the light. It was loaded. I pressed the button to release the magazine, catching it in my palm. Full.
I slammed the magazine back into the grip with the palm of my hand. The sound was the most beautiful thing I had heard all day.
I looked at the door. I pictured him walking through it tomorrow morning, his face twisted in that arrogant, bored smile.
I sat on the edge of the bed, my hands were shaking, but not from fear anymore. It was the adrenaline, the pure, hot need to be free. I looked down at the iron cuff biting into my skin and the thick, black chain that ran to the floor.
I reached for the pillow and bunched it up, pressing it hard against the chain where it met the floor. I didn't want the sound to bring him running before I was ready. I leaned down, my hair falling over my face, and pressed the muzzle of the gun directly against the thickest link.
BANG.
The sound was dull inside the spacious room. The gun kicked back against my hand, the sting traveling all the way to my shoulder. I looked down. The metal was dented, a bright silver scar showing through the black paint, but it hadn't snapped.
"Again," I hissed through my teeth.
BANG.
The second shot sent a spark flying. I smelled the burnt scent of gunpowder. My ears were ringing, a high-pitched whine that blocked out the sound of my own breathing. I adjusted my grip, my palms sweaty against the cold grip of the weapon.
BANG. BANG.
Two more shots. I watched the link begin to twist and fray. The metal was hot now, glowing slightly. I fired again and again until the hammer clicked on an empty chamber.
Six shots.
With a harsh tug, I pulled my leg back. The weakened link gave way. The heavy length of the chain fell away, hitting the rug with a dull, dead thud.
I was... free, no, not free but, unchained.
I stood up, my leg feeling light and strange. I felt a wild laugh bubbling in my throat, but I pushed it down. I wasn't out yet. I reached for the extra magazine on the bed and slammed it into the bottom of the gun. I pulled the slide back, chambering a fresh round.
I didn't care about the pain in my ankle. I didn't care that I was bare. I was going home.
And Alexander Van Alen was going to jail for raping his own sister.
I reached the heavy door and stared at the brass lock, the thing that stood between me and the world.
I held the gun with both hands, steadying my aim.
BANG.
The wood around the lock splintered, white shards of oak flying into the air.
BANG.
The second shot hit the metal dead-on. The lock groaned, the internal gears shattering. I stepped back and threw the full weight of my shoulder against the wood, the door gave way, the frame splintering as it swung wide.
I stepped out into the hallway, the cool air hitting my skin.
If Alex was out there, if anyone was out there, they were going to see exactly what happens when you push me until there is nothing left.
I started down the hall, my bare feet steady on the floor, ready to paint this house red.