Chapter 22
Madelene
Second-guessing my choices isn’t a new thing for me. I’ve spent a lifetime wondering what if, wasted away most of my time since turning eighteen, questioning every move I’ve made, and it’s no different for me right now.
Hollis left to get food, and I wonder why he goes to get prepared meals two to three times a day rather than grabbing quick, easy stuff to make from the grocery store.
Maybe he needs a break from my presence as much as I feel like I need a break from him.
It doesn’t stop my heart from racing a mile an hour every time he leaves.
It doesn’t keep me from drawing the curtains tightly closed, fearful Alessio could be outside, waiting until I’m vulnerable to come in and take me.
It makes no sense to even think that. Alessio wouldn’t waste a second killing Hollis.
He sure as hell wouldn’t wait to grab me.
He’s not exactly known for his patience, although he’s always been a little more calculating than Marcello, who acted first and rarely thought later.
The man I’m anxiously awaiting to return, literally shot a man in the head and dragged me to his truck before binding and gagging me. Yet, I’m sitting in his living room, hoping he doesn’t forget a packet of honey mustard sauce because I’ve discovered I prefer it over ketchup for my fries.
I’m the definition of clinically insane. I can argue that I’m choosing the lesser of two evils, but after what happened in the bathroom two days ago, I don’t consider Hollis to be evil at all.
I’ve never thought that all killing is wrong. Maybe it’s the way I was raised. Maybe it’s because it’s been drilled into my head that loyalty is everything. It’s the betrayal of that loyalty that warrants death that keeps me from lining Hollis right up beside Alessio and his team of villains.
Hollis is avenging a death, making things right in his eyes. If anything, I’m a complication to his mission, but he hasn’t asked me to leave since that first time. I’m not mistaken in thinking he wants me to be here, but at least he hasn’t shoved me out the front door and told me to fuck off.
I think he likes this game we’re playing, but I don’t imagine he’s going to stick to the rules much longer. He’s kept his distance the last two days, barely made eye contact with me since walking out of the bathroom after making me come on his mouth.
He hasn’t rolled over and touched me in bed, nor has he asked me to get naked, although my payment for food was paid in full the day before.
Eating yesterday was less enjoyable as I could feel the scratch of my clothes the entire time. I ached to get naked, but I didn’t.
This entire situation is deranged. The way I feel about all of it is the most complicated thing that has ever clouded my mind. Rather than thinking of a way to survive Alessio if I leave this house, I sit, dreaming up ways to push the boundaries until Hollis acts out the way he did in the bathroom.
Instead of walking away, taking my chances alone, I stay. Hell, I think I want to be here with him. As much as that should terrify me, it doesn’t. I couldn’t lie to myself even if I tried.
The safety I’ve convinced myself I have here is tenuous. It rests solely on Hollis’s ability to maintain control, and he almost lost it the other day. It’s only a matter of time before desire takes precedence over the composure he seemed to be struggling to maintain.
Access to the outside world is limited for me, but that has little to do with Hollis.
We have a television, and he has a phone.
I’ve never asked to use it. I don’t know that he’d tell me no if I did.
He could easily hand it over, but who would I call?
I don’t doubt my father would turn me right back over to Alessio after giving me a verbal lashing for having the audacity to get abducted in the first place.
I wasn’t allowed any friends.
I literally have no one who would be willing to help me. The Severino family made sure of that. Yet, I don’t feel helpless despite being exactly that.
I stand from the settee and walk around the small room.
There’s nothing in this house that doesn’t serve a function.
There’s no décor, no extras, barely basic amenities.
This can’t possibly be his full-time house.
There are no books, no mail, no way to pass the time other than the television.
Dishes are minimal although he has brought more home to accommodate the two of us being here.
I know we’re in McAllen, Texas, or somewhere very close because it’s the town focused on most when we watch the news.
According to them, it’s a town not far from the Mexico border and full of dangerous people, abductions, and murder.
I think he watches it as a way to control me and keep me here.
It’s his way of saying it’s safer here, no matter what happens, than it would be for me out there.
He told me I’m making a choice staying here, but can it really be considered a choice when I’m forced to choose between him and the unknown?
I rush back to the couch when I hear the garage door open.
He never steps outside of it until the door closes fully, so I know I won’t ever be caught rummaging through his things, not that there’s much around to give me any clue who the man really is.
I have no idea of his likes or dislikes.
I’ve discovered he’s just as quick to pick a cooking show over an action movie, just like he’ll pick a thriller over a comedy, only to be the exact opposite the next day.
I can’t get a proper read on the man, and I don’t know if it’s because he honestly has such eclectic tastes or if he’s purposely trying to keep me guessing.
I watch as he enters in through the door in the kitchen, another bag of fast food in his hand.
I haven’t once complained about the food he’s provided because he could just as easily not bring me anything.
I imagine his goodwill can only last so long.
There’s a part of me I thought he was desperate to have, but his lack of interest the last two days has me second-guessing even that.
I can’t let go of the idea that this is some long con for him, that he’s purposely trying to gain my trust just so it hurts more when he betrays it, but he doesn’t seem like Alessio at all.
He pulls some sort of sandwich from the bag before walking out the backdoor.
He doesn’t offer me what’s left in the bag, but I don’t hesitate to walk forward and look inside. I don’t know if he forgot or didn’t get the honey mustard on purpose. It feels like a form of manipulation as I pull the remaining food from the bag.
He doesn’t come back into the house. Instead, he opts to sit on the single rocking chair on the back porch.
It’s his way of avoiding me because he knows I wouldn’t step foot out there.
The neighbor’s house is so close I feel like I can touch it from one of the bedroom windows.
The fence is a rusty chain-link, offering no privacy.
I can’t let anyone know that I’m here, and he knows it.
I eat, waiting for him to come back inside, wondering what I’ll say to him when he does. It shouldn’t hurt my feelings, his insistence to be alone, but for some reason it does.
I flip through the channels on the television, wondering what he would pick if he were sitting beside me, and jolt at a noise from the street.
I’m on edge, once again eyeing the door the same way I do when I consider trying to sleep out here rather than naked and vulnerable beside him.
That fear always has me crawling into the bed.
I pause on a show about something the host of the documentary calls capture-bonding, an alternative name for Stockholm’s syndrome. They mention a lot of things, but I don’t feel like it’s describing me.
I don’t care for Hollis. I see him as the lesser of two very evil choices, and I know that opinion may change whenever he decides he’s had enough of resisting what he really wants from me.
I don’t dislike people who may be looking for me because those who are only want to hurt me worse.
The only thing that strikes a chord is that we may have the same desires. We both want the Severino family destroyed. The problem with that is I know it can never happen to such a powerful organization, and Hollis is delusional, thinking he’s going to be the one to cut them off at the knees.
He doesn’t come back inside for hours. I can see the top of the rocking chair moving back and forth, back and forth, for a long time. The sun sets, and yet he still remains back there.
I think when he reenters the house, things are going to change, but even two days later, he’s still ignoring my existence. I hate the man for it, wondering if his threats and the fear he instills isn’t better than being looked through as if I don’t exist.