Chapter 23
Jolie—aged eighteen
The cage floor was hard and cold, my body stiff as I slept on it. Its door had been left open and unlocked—Ville no longer saw me as a threat to the peaceful life he was living on the floor above. I’d say he was underestimating me, but I really had lost my fight.
I stayed in the cage because I felt safer there.
It had been a week since I saw Woody and his fucked-up father. Woodrow was surely in an eternal slumber, his body now permanently owned by another. There was no other reason as to why he wouldn’t have come for me by now.
Morning had arrived. I knew thanks to Wynter’s voice seeping through the floorboards, as she brutally murdered another of my favorite songs.
I had nothing left for comfort. I couldn’t sing myself to sleep and the daydreams that took over ninety percent of my time, brought more pain than they did pleasure, because, at some point, I’d always wake back up in a state of severe depression.
It had taken me the longest time to fall asleep; I’d barely had any. And sleep was all I ever tried to do to pass the time—my nightmares, more lenient than my reality.
Death got closer each day, and I couldn’t wait for that day to finally arrive.
The door to the basement opened and slammed shut, and Jesus fell from the wall where he'd been rehung. The wooden cross bounced off my head, and landed in front of my face. My eyes opened and focused on it, while my hand reached to the pain it caused me.
He was back to protect me.
I clutched Jesus from the floor, pulling him into my chest as I tried to sit up, begging him for the strength to fight through whatever came next if he wouldn't lead me into heaven.
Heels clicked and clacked down the steps, a slight hobble still present in her stride.
I didn't look up to see her cold glare fixed on me. I'd seen enough of that on every other visit when I’d pleaded to her to help me as Ville beat and bruised me until I couldn't talk. . . as he fucked my mouth to keep me quiet, and she got off on it.
They didn't approve of my screaming and crying when I was first locked down here, growing tired of hearing me quickly. Apparently, I was scaring Nessie. I’d learned the hard way to be quiet, but the punishments continued even when I was well-behaved.
“No hello? Where are your manners?”
I kept my eyes on Jesus, my questioning gaze wondering why he hadn't saved me yet.
Wynter's body bent down to my level, her knees clicking with the movement. I looked at her for a moment, my hate showing.
“Oh, if looks could kill.” She laughed, sounding like every mean girl I'd ever known. . . only worse. “Good grief, don’t you look beautiful.” She laughed again, a snort overriding her giggle.
I hated her laugh. I hated everything about her.
“He can't help you,” she said, examining the figure in my hands. “He never helped me, either.”
“Cry me a river.” I couldn't help one jibe.
Wynter stared at me, looking nothing like the woman I met months ago.
Her appearance had changed since the day I met her, her mannerisms, too.
She'd become as cold as the season she was named after, with a scowl permanently sat on her red lips, that lifted in a way that made her look like she was constantly smelling dog shit, and she’d put red streaks through her hair, which, if I didn’t know better, I’d say was the blood of her victims.
“I could. I've been through a lot worse than you have.”
“It's not a competition, Wynter. . . and if it was, are you so sure you'd win? Even after the worst moments of your life, you still had someone in your corner. I don't have that, do I? What have you done to your son?”
“He’s upstairs, Jolie, pretending to be someone he’s not.”
I looked away from her sneer.
“Oh, don’t do that. I don’t care to see all those unattractive scars. The other side is slightly better to look at. Though you never were a beauty queen.” She used her words to hurt me, because, physically, she wasn’t strong enough. And my mind was fragile enough for her to break.
“Anyway, where were we? Woodrow. . . the only reason he was ever in your corner is because that's where monsters lurk. He's a rapist. Your rapist.”
“That wasn't Woodrow.”
“Potato, potato,” she said, giving two different pronunciations. “Is there really a difference? Is that what you believe? That he has a medical condition? What if I told you it’s a lie? That it’s what he tells you, in order to manipulate you.”
“It’s not, and we both know, the person with powers of manipulation in this house, is your husband. Maybe he’s what really corrupted you.”
“Don’t you dare! He is a god to me. He saved me. What made me cold and hard, was life. Being raped by my brother. Impregnated by him or fuck-knows-who at sixteen. Maybe it was all that.”
“Maybe.” I chose not to push the conversation.
“Maybe. Maybe you understand all that, now that you’re carrying an unwanted, unloved child.”
I shook my head. For the last week, I’d thought a lot about the idea of a baby. But Wynter was wrong, my child wouldn’t be unloved. It was already loved, and the only thing I didn’t want was for it to be born into this nightmare.
The easiest thing would be death before life, and the happiest thing for me would be to die, too.
“You want the baby?”
A flutter danced in my stomach, my hand moving to soothe the anxiety Wynter caused us both, and it showed her that she held the trump card. I opted for a different approach, reaching out to her in another way.
“Wynter, it doesn’t have to be like this. Help me. We can get you help, too. I’m not asking you to turn on your husband for me. But for your children. Your grandchild.”
“My grandchild of mutual rape.”
I pondered over her words. “What does that even mean?”
“It means you and my own unwanted child abused each other to get it. Woodrow is a minor. Sex with him is a felony.”
“I didn’t want to. . .” I stuttered. “It’s not a crime. The age of consent here is sixteen.” I believed I was right, but I had no proof.
And Wynter said nothing to confirm or deny.
My stomach rumbled, showcasing the hunger I felt.
“Ah, starvation. Don't worry, honey, there's still enough weight on you for you to live a while. Good thing you were chubby to start with. I’m not so sure about the bambino. It’ll be a blessing, you’ll see.”
Before I could react to her bitterness with more ignorance, the basement door opened again.
The sound of music fell into the room—my once favorite song. I was grateful that Wynter didn’t sing along with the echo down here.
The aroma of food cooking pulled my face to the door, the kitchen light raining down on the gloom. My stomach rumbled again, missing even the bland taste of Wynter's meals.
“I'd offer you some, but we both know you never really liked my cooking. And you’re not really all that appreciative when we feed you these days.”
I never realized she noticed the slight abhorrence towards her food. Or, the disgust I tried to hold back as I ate my cold mush from the floor these past few months. Clearly, I wasn’t half the actress she was, because I'd never realized what an awful human being she was.
But she proved it right here.
“Do you like the music? I play it for you, changing how you’ll hear your favorite songs. The guys who delivered you told us how you liked to sing.” She laughed until a snort interrupted it.
“Hollywood would love you, Wynter. You're such the actress. I really thought you were nice. I thought you cared. About me. About women like you who’d suffered. You’re a lie.
” Those were the last words I said to her before her knees creaked again as she pushed herself up.
Her court shoes in my view, carrying her away.
She stopped at the stairs as loud feet padded the slats, bringing the man I hated most in the world closer to me.
“Probably true. They love a blonde bombshell. I’m a wasted talent. But there is much more money in what we do.”
I didn’t have a chance to say another word. It didn’t matter; I had nothing to say. I didn’t care to know what my body would be worth when I stopped breathing. Obviously, it was enough to purchase another unfortunate soul and prep it for the devil’s taking.
“How about we swap? One brat for another.” Ville laughed, and his question etched a more vicious scowl onto Wynter's lips, as if the idea of Nessie drained her more than anything.
Moments later, she was gone, taking the light with her as she closed the door.
The blaze at the end of Ville’s cigar was the only light in the room, and it cast his face in the most heinous looking shadows. The kind that looked like they truly belonged on him.
“You'll have to excuse my wife,” he told me, bringing the cigar to and from his lips as he talked. “She tires of house guests.”
I looked away from him. I had questions, but the memory of the beatings and abuse I received last week was too fresh and the pains still too agonizing for me to press for answers he wouldn't give.
“Ask me. I'm calmer today.”
My lip rose in disgust, curling over my teeth and mimicking a dog that would loathe this cage as I did.
“I know you have questions.” A puff of smoke seeped through the bars and choked me, just like Ville’s hands had done so many times. The ache in the left side of my neck, scarred and blistered, pleaded as I turned my head. Pleaded for me not to say a damn word.
“Okay, I'll tell you. You’re right, but that kid is out of his head. He’ll never know.
He’ll never know I’m pretending to care about him.
” He took another drag, the cigar shrinking in his mouth.
“Deep down, all he wants is love and he’ll do anything to get it.
If his little falls for my shit, he’ll convince the other two, and then when he’s what I need him to become, I’ll medicate him.
But he’ll have different ideas of right and wrong by then. ”
“Why?”
“Why? Isn’t it obvious? You’ve seen him.
Facially, he’s flawless. He could bring in a lot of money.
Girls would drop at his feet. Beg him to take them home.
It wouldn’t take long for me to steal everything with Alerion out of the picture.
This empire, one of the biggest trafficking rings in the world, would be ours.
Heaven on Earth. . . pretty good name, don’t you think? ”
“Run by a guy named Hell?” The sarcasm was thick on my tongue.
“Ironic, isn’t it?” Ville laughed, sounding more like a villain than ever.
“Did you pick me?” I had no idea where that question came from, but the second it popped into my head, it was out of my mouth.
“I did. Based on girls you looked similar to. Women from TV and magazines. Women that got a different reaction from Woodrow to all the skinny blondes. You can blame him for the death of your father.”
“I know what you’re doing. I know you are trying to turn us against each other, but it won’t work.
He’s already hurt me in the worst ways.” I pointed to my face with a trembling hand.
“He’s scarred me. He’s raped me. I still love him.
You won’t win. You won’t turn me against him, leaving only you with your false love.
You’ll have to kill me. . . and he will never forgive you for that. ”
“Ultimately, it’ll be his decision what happens to you. . . if you make it that long.”
“He won’t kill me.”
“He might not. . . but Hell might.” A sinister smile lifted Ville’s lips, his dirty teeth as exposed as my body.
“How many girls—”
“Have I done this to? Fuck knows. Too many to count. Since Nessie was born, they are all delivered to the basement, for me to break, in some way. You were the exception.”
“Why?”
“You had a different purpose. You weren’t here to be broken; you were here to fix someone else.
You were never meant for me. Though none of these girls have been.
That said, I won’t deny the pleasure I took from the others.
” The tiny cigar shrunk again, as he took another puff.
“Many end up sold on. The ones that don’t make it, or won't make it, Sylvia takes. The dying girls are used in a different way, organs for the rich. The dead ones, he eats.”
Ville spoke as if his words were part of normal conversation. Cannibalism and illegal sales were the norm to him, I guess.
“You were luckier than the others. You had weeks of a warm bed. You should have counted your blessings, because they are over now.
I was done with listening to him. Done with looking at his ugly face. I turned away, my fingers wrapping tighter around Jesus’ throat, waiting for God to strike me down in retaliation, when I said, “Where’s my food?”