Chapter Twenty-Three
Raine
I dreamed.
The fact lands so hard, my eyes sting. Dreaming means REM sleep. REM sleep means time. Unbroken time my body desperately needed.
I haven’t had that since they took me. I don’t know if I ever managed a shallow doze there before hands jerked me back to awareness for one of their corrections.
But moments ago, just before I surfaced, I was on my parents’ old couch, the cat they adopted when I was ten curled on my legs. Heavy. Warm. Like nothing bad had happened yet.
Before the wave of emotion can drown me, I start cataloging what I know.
A soft bed. Borrowed clothes. Socks.
No gusts of frigid air from an overactive ventilation system. No cold seeping into my skin. No hands causing me pain.
Soft music, steady and low. Present, but not demanding.
I open my eyes.
The room is brighter now. Light leaks around the edges of the blinds, enough that I can tell it’s later than it was, but still daylight.
Asher is sprawled in the chair, head tipped back, blanket over his legs, hands visible. Even in sleep, he’s determined to prove I can trust him.
He stayed between me and the door.
Always between me and the door.
“Nothing gets to you without going through me first. And I don’t go down easy.”
I check in with my body.
Ribs. Sharp, but not stabbing.
Shoulder. Still wrong, but less so.
Wrists. Tender, the skin complaining when I flex.
My fingers curl. They still shake, but they listen.
Thirst hits next. Not the dehydrated, desperate need from before. From there. This is more focused. My mouth is dry, tongue thick, teeth coated in a disgusting fuzz that makes my stomach lurch.
I want water.
The word want feels wrong.
Not allowed. Ask. Wait for permission.
I blink hard, then look at Asher again. He sat up with me most of the night. Fed me. Talked me out of a panic attack and back into my body. Made me eggs. Before and after he helped me find my hands again.
If I call his name, he’ll wake up. Bring me water. Without expectation or hesitation.
But…there’s an idea forming in my head I can’t ignore.
Get up. Go to the kitchen. Get water. Because you want it.
The conditioning hits, stealing my breath.
“You are not to move unless instructed.”
Everything in me wants to lie still. But that’s not me. It’s them.
I slide my right hand under the blanket and grip the sheet as an anchor.
Then I move.
Rolling to my side sends a sharp flare through my shoulder, but it doesn’t crest the way it did before Asher worked on it. It plateaus. Holds.
I push up on my elbow and let my legs hang off the edge of the bed, my feet reaching for the floor.
The socks catch on the sheet, then find the carpet. My toes curl automatically, testing the reality of it.
I’m sitting. Without aid. Without restraints. Without anyone giving me permission.
That alone feels like a small miracle.
Standing is harder. My thighs shake, but not with the same catastrophic weakness as before. My muscles still resent gravity, but they don’t give up on me.
I brace one hand on the mattress, one on the wall, and lever myself upright. The room tilts, then steadies.
Asher doesn’t stir.
“Okay,” I whisper, mostly to myself. “Okay.”
The doorframe is three uneven steps away. I keep close enough to the wall to catch myself if I start to go down.
In the hallway, the air is cooler. It smells faintly like coffee. Soap. And Asher.
No antiseptic. No old sweat. No chemical sludge masquerading as nutrition.
The kitchenette is just beyond the small living room. Counter. Sink. Cabinets. A compact fridge. The kind of place designed to be functional, but not leave an impression.
I stop at the edge of the counter and take stock again.
Glasses are stacked on a shelf to my left. Two sizes. Small and large.
I stare at them, waiting for a correction. For barked orders or hands touching the exact wrong spot on my neck or wrist or thumb.
Nothing happens, and eventually, I risk reaching for one.
Even the small glass is heavier than I expect. My grip isn’t perfect. My thumb doesn’t want to get with the program. But I don’t drop it.
The surge of relief borders on ridiculous.
I set the glass in the sink under the faucet. Turning the handle is harder. My fingers might work, but they’re still weak.
Water bursts out, louder than I expect, and my entire body braces until I remind it no one’s watching.
When the glass is half full, I shut the faucet off and just…stare at the water.
It’s real. More importantly, it’s mine. Because I wanted it.
I have to use both hands to bring the glass to my chapped lips. The first sip is barely enough to wet my tongue. But the second…
My eyes sting. Swallowing hurts more than I’d like. Not damage. Disuse, I think. My stomach clenches, then eases when I tell it to.
The urge to finish it all is stronger than I expect, but I stop myself after the fourth sip. I can have more whenever I want.
I set the glass down on the counter, my movements so slow, it would be comical if I didn’t ache everywhere.
My hands are shaking harder now. This is more effort than I’ve expended at once since I got out. But the fact that I did something I wasn’t allowed to do for…
I can’t put a number on it. Days. Weeks. Long enough to forget I could.
I lean my hip against the counter and let the realization catch up to me.
I wanted water. I got it.
My teeth still feel wrong, coated in the memory of chemically sweet nutrient sludge and too many days without brushing.
Asher stocked this place with all the basics. Food. Clothes. Soap. There must be a toothbrush in the bathroom somewhere.
Another want.
Another choice.
My legs protest when I push off the counter, but they hold. Each step toward the bathroom is a quiet, stubborn declaration.
Mine.
I close the bathroom door halfway. I need to be able to see the bed. And Asher. But I don’t want to wake him. He finally looks…relaxed.
The sink is small. White porcelain, a faint chip on the left edge. I refuse to acknowledge the mirror above it. I’m too afraid of what I’ll see.
The one thing I want most of all—a toothbrush, wrapped in plastic—is sitting in a cup on the counter. A travel size tube of toothpaste is next to it.
I brace my hip against the counter and pick up the toothbrush, using my thumb and forefinger like tweezers. The plastic crackles when I tear the wrapper, the sound louder than it should be.
The brush is light. Easy enough to hold if I choke up on the handle.
The toothpaste is harder. The cap is too small. I have to pin the tube against the counter with my palm and use the heel of my other hand to twist. On the second try, it gives.
By the time I get a crooked line of paste on the brush, I’m breathless and a little dizzy from the effort. From the simple, absurd fact that I’m doing this at all.
The first touch of bristles to my teeth is almost unbearable. Too sharp. Too loud. Mint cuts through the furry coating like a scythe. My gums protest, no longer used to this kind of attention, throbbing under the strokes.
But I don’t stop. Front teeth first. Then the sides. Then the molars. My shoulder complains about the angle, but it holds. My jaw starts to ache from staying open too long.
I rinse, using my cupped palm to bring water to my lips. There’s still too much fuzz. Too much…wrong.
The second pass is better. Easier.
When I finally stop, my mouth tingles. My tongue feels like it belongs to me again. The taste of what they called “food” lingers at the edge of my memory, but the mint cuts through it.
I didn’t realize how much I needed that taste gone until now.
I cap the toothpaste with more effort than it should take and set it back exactly where it was. Brush too. Ordered. Controlled. Because I can choose that now too.
My legs wobble. Standing on my own, walking, brushing my teeth… This is more movement than I’ve been allowed in too long. My body is keeping score even if my mind doesn’t want to. Sitting sounds good. Necessary. Lying down would be even better.
Then my glance catches the mirror.
I didn’t know I was avoiding it until just now.
I could turn away. Go back to bed. Pretend.
I grip the edge of the counter instead. The porcelain is cool under my fingers.
“Look,” I whisper. “Just once.”
For a second, my brain refuses to make the connection between what I see and what I know of me.
The woman in the mirror is pale. Too pale. Her skin has a sallow undertone that doesn’t belong. Bruises blossom along her jaw, her throat, the edges of her collarbones—yellow and green at the borders, ugly purple at the center.
There’s swelling over her right cheekbone. A small cut near her hairline. Faint, square imprints where electrodes used to be, only just starting to fade.
Her hair is flattened in places, sticking out in others. Thinner than it should be. Stripped of the small rituals that used to define it. A part. A twist. A clip or a braid.
Her eyes are the worst.
They’re mine. Color, shape, all correct. But the way they sit in her face is wrong. Too hollow. Shadows brace the sockets, highlighting the streaks of red around her irises.
I don’t recognize my own posture. My shoulders are drawn tightly. My head is angled, protecting the side where the ties from the hood rubbed my neck raw.
I swallow. The woman in the mirror moves at the same time. That’s the only proof I have that she’s me.
“Okay,” I whisper, the word barely audible. “This is data.”
Naming a thing helps. So does cataloging.
Mixed stage bruises. Pressure repeated time and time again.
Shoulder swelling is visible under the fabric of the sweatshirt. Range of motion is compromised. Dangerous if not treated. Less dangerous after Asher did…whatever he did.
Wrists bruised, abraded, raw. Swelling. Nerve pain still present, but improving.
My face is…different.
I let myself have that word. Different.
Not ruined.
Not destroyed.
Different.
Air shudders in and out of my lungs in an uneven pattern. Tears well in my eyes.
This is what they did. Not just pain. Erasure.
I’m here. I survived. But I’m not the first one they tried to strip down to nothing.
What they did to me was practiced. Rehearsed. Refined until they could run it with the same precision as a medical procedure.
That doesn’t happen by accident.
I lower my gaze. The temptation to crawl back into a soft bed and pretend this ends with warm socks and a kind voice in a forgettable safe house is strong enough I ache for it.
But my story doesn’t end that way.
It ends when I stop them.
My legs decide they’re done before my brain does. I let go of the sink and make the slow, careful trip back to the bed. Each step feels longer than it should.
I lower myself to the edge. Hold for a beat, then ease myself back until my shoulders find the pillow. My ribs complain, but less than they did yesterday. I keep my gaze on the ceiling for a moment. Because the mirror was too much, and Asher, sleeping in the chair, is almost worse.
I need him. But after what they did to me—forcing dependence and calling it care—I hate that I can’t do this on my own.
The plan comes together in small, deliberate clicks.
Photos. Notes. Timestamps. My words. Asher’s hands, when I need them. A record they can’t scrub or edit or bury.
I turn my head toward him.
He’s still out, chin tipped down now, arms folded loosely over the blanket, hands visible. He looks exhausted. Human. Not like a weapon or a solution. Like a person who stayed up for someone else’s worst night.
And he never complained.
“I need…” The word catches. I try again, quieter. “We need to document it.”
He doesn’t wake.
That’s okay. I’m not ready to say it out loud again anyway. Not yet. But the decision is there.
They tried to dispose of me.
I’m going to make them answer for it.