Chapter 19
Chapter Nineteen
Isaac
Ijolt out of sleep, the cold concrete cooling my skin, my body dripping with sweat.
Over and over, I replay the image of Harry defiling Veronica.
Not even in my dreams can I escape it. For a moment, I lay there, counting my breaths, trying to push away the thought.
Before I shift to face Ronnie, I watch as she sleeps.
The only thing that brings me peace is watching over her.
I try to trick my mind, thinking that I can keep her safe.
Making me feel useful, as if I could protect her.
All it does is show that I can't. It’s been a couple of days since we’ve been here, like every night since it happened.
I watch helplessly as she fights with the demons inside her head.
The ones I can’t defeat. I’ve never felt so helpless.
The guilt is heavy on my heart. The worst part is having this much rage inside me, only for it to be restrained.
This pain will always be a reminder of how much I failed her.
I cling to the sound of soft sniffles and whimpers as she cries herself to sleep.
It hurt my soul to see her this silent… This broken.
All I want to do is restore whatever part of her that’s missing, give her all the pieces of me until she’s whole again.
The constant throb in my leg grows harder and harder to ignore.
My body aches. Small shivers of cold run through my system.
Making me shiver each time, it feels like I’m coming down with something.
Or my body is struggling to heal from the gunshot wound.
I make sure not to wake her. As I work quietly, unwrapping the soiled bandage.
Grimacing at the sight, the sliced part of my jeans is embedded into the wound that’s quickly festering.
By the looks of it, it’s beginning to get infected.
The wound is hot, and I can smell the sickly sweet, putrid scent building in it, and as much as I want to act like this isn’t a problem, I can’t.
It’s a big one if I don’t take care of it.
An infection can kill me easily under these conditions.
Leaving her here with them is not an option.
Dying is not a fucking option. I need antibiotics and wound care, ASAP.
There’s no way I can be any more useless than I already am.
My heart sinks into my stomach, and I suck in a deep breath, exhaling through my nose.
Repeating the sequence while I keep my eyes on Ronnie.
She’s slowly breaking, I can see it, no matter how hard she tries to hide it.
My precious butterfly won’t be able to keep this up, not this way.
My sunflower is barely hanging on, and I'm helplessly watching as she slowly loses her petals. I sit up, resting my back against the cold wall, before stretching out my leg to ease some of the pain, but nothing seems to work. What a fucking nightmare. I know I can’t just sit here and watch her waste away in front of me.
This can’t be how our story ends, how hers ends.
I refuse to let this be the place where her story ends.
Closing my eyes, I let the tears I’ve kept inside fall because I refuse to let her see me break, not right now.
I have to be her escape. I need to be her anchor, but I’m falling apart too.
I bite down on my lip until the tang of blood seeps into my mouth.
With a pained grunt, I push myself up from the cold floor, disregarding the sharp pain shooting up my infected leg.
Ronnie stirs in her sleep, a whimper escaping her lips.
I gnash my teeth, forcing my body to move, but the chain keeps me in place forcing me to full stop.
All I can do is watch helplessly as she begins to toss
“No… please… no,” she says, her voice broken.
I tug more desperately, as if the chain will magically give in.
Nothing gives. The sound of her pleas is like ice picks into my heart, each whimper driving the blade deeper.
My chest tightens just as my body begins to shake.
I can’t bear to see her like this, trapped in a cycle of agony both awake and asleep.
I’d rather it be me, ten times over, and not her…
never her. I don’t notice how hard I’m tugging until the chain begins to bite at my ankle and wrist. The previous marks reopen, the blood dripping down, and still, I continue to tug.
If only I could get this fucking chain free, I could get us out.
All I need is to get my hands on him. One false move and I can fuck him up.
He’s smart enough to keep his distance and use Ronnie as a means to control me.
He’s a coward who hides behind a woman and a gun.
“No… please… no,” Ronnie whimpers again.
I can’t stand it any longer, tears streaming down my face as I tug harder on the chain, my infected leg screaming in protest. My knees wobble when I try to stand, and if only I could crawl to her.
Console her…. she needs me. Ronnie cries grow more frantic, her body writhing in terror.
My teeth clench tightly together as I push myself to stand, putting my weight down on my infected leg and pulling.
I pull over and over until my leg gives in, blood spilling down my leg.
I collapse onto my knees, and for the first time, I pray.
A sinner. A non-believer trying to find mercy.
Praying for a miracle to a God who never listens.
The sound of small footsteps, the opening of the basement door, and a desperate woman are the answer to my prayers.
I drag a shaky hand down my face, trying to wipe away any hint of emotion that might give me away.
It doesn’t take long for her to appear behind a glow of orange.
Priscilla places her index finger over her lips, motioning for me to be quiet as she closes the door behind her.
I nod, watching her as she takes a cautious step closer to me, showing me the white first aid kit in her hand and the bottle of what looks like antibiotics.
“You look like you’re in pain,” she whispers. “I think it’s infected.”
I scoff. “No shit. I think that’s what happens when you’re bound in a basement and have a bullet wound in your leg.”
She grimaces and takes extra steps, closing the distance between us. “Let me help you.”
Hesitation has me frozen in place. It takes me a moment before allowing her to help. Realising how stupid it would be not allow her to. I clearly need it. Plus, I can use this time to learn about her and make her think I’m on her side. “You can help by letting us go.”
“You know… I can’t.”
“Yeah, you can,” I mutter as I motion for her to proceed.
“I really can’t….” She gives me a sad smile before kneeling before me.
A curtain of chestnut waves falls down her face as her hands gently begin to work, first by undressing the dirty bandage, and then ripping my jeans further up.
“I'm sorry….” She trails off, looking at Ronnie tossing and turning.
“You say sorry a lot for someone who's responsible for everything that is happening.” Priscilla huffs out a breath, using the back of her hand to push back the flyaways that fall over her eyes. “I’m not evil, you know. Sometimes, for the greater you just have to do terrible things. You have no idea.”
My brow arches. “Then tell me.”
“Why?” she asks softly, confusion etched on her features.
“Why not?”
Priscilla doesn’t answer; she just focuses on what she came here to do.
Clean up her resource. That’s what we have been reduced to.
A means to an end, nothing more. My blood simmers until it comes to a full boil.
Anger rears its ugly head, making it hard not to bash her head in, shockingly enough I swallow the urge and instead try to make small talk. “How many?”
She freezes before slowly dragging her gaze to meet mine. A long and low sigh escapes her lips before her chin lowers to her chest, muttering, “Just a couple before you two.”
Priscilla resumes her work, and my stomach rolls before it sinks to the pit of my being.
I swallow hard, leaning into the wall as if somehow I can escape the woman before me.
But there’s nowhere to go. There’s a tingle in my chest, one that I try to push away, to keep her talking because that’s the only way out.
“If you want a baby so badly, why not just leave him? You’re clearly younger.
” I raise a brow, studying her movements to somehow decipher if there’s any kind of hesitation within them.
She stops, glaring daggers at me. Her head slowly tilts, studying my angle.
“You know nothing. Wives aren’t meant to walk out of their marriage when things get rough.
Once our family is complete, this won’t happen again. ”
I can’t help the snicker that escapes from my lips. Or how quickly my hands ball up at my sides. “That’s the thing, what if it doesn’t stop. What if–?”
Priscilla gives me a stern look, cutting my words off before I have a chance to voice reason. “I’m just here to help. You need that cleaned out,” she mutters as she begins to set up.
My eyes follow each movement of her hands as she starts to clean the outer layers.
The stitches are swollen, crusted with pus, and pulled so tightly you can’t see the ragged edges.
Drifting my attention towards her face, I notice a bruise on her cheek.
The purple mark tells me it’s new. A flower freshly bloomed. He must have gotten to her, too.