Chapter 19 Aurora
AURORA
Fuck. Him. Fuck him, and fuck that nutcase, Selina. Fuck all of this.
He’ll never know how hard I fought not to jump off this cot and claw his eyes out for leaving me here.
I had to lie here instead, staring at this gray wall.
I’ve been staring at it for I don’t even know how long.
When I unwind my arms from around my body and loosen my fists, the deep crescent marks in my palms are evidence of how hard I fought to stay quiet.
He doesn’t deserve my forgiveness now, if that’s what he’s looking for.
He doesn’t deserve an explanation, either, when he wouldn’t listen to me last night.
Wait. Was it last night? Is this still the same day?
I have no idea, and it makes me shake harder than I have since I first wound up in this room.
He’s torturing me. This is torture. No idea whether it’s night or day.
Lying under a light that never goes off.
I haven’t eaten. One of Liam’s guards brought sandwiches at one point, but I haven’t touched them.
I probably should. I need to keep my strength up, but the feeling of betrayal is so strong it has my stomach revolting.
What the hell was Selina doing? I squeeze my eyes tightly shut, but it does nothing to erase the memory of what still doesn’t make any sense.
I’m just as shocked now as I was when I watched Selina drag that knife over her arm.
It wasn’t an accident; it wasn’t a mistake.
She made the choice to slice her own arm, then blamed me for it.
Why? I imagined anyone involved in this crazy plot had to be half out of their mind, but I didn’t expect to see it play out with my own eyes.
I’ve seen a lot of ugly, horrible things.
A lot of ugly, horrible things have been done to me.
But something about being in the kitchen with her shook me.
I’m still shaking. She wanted to hurt me—she wanted to do more than hurt me.
I felt her hatred as if it was some living, breathing thing, and I have to wonder if I would have made it out alive if Liam hadn’t come home when he did.
When she held that knife and told me I should’ve been prepared to use it on her…
she was going to use it on me, wasn’t she?
And he wants my explanation. Now, he wants it.
Not before throwing me in here and leaving me for hours and hours.
Not before he dragged me around like I was a ragdoll, some possession he could do whatever he wanted with.
Next thing I know, he wants my forgiveness.
Like he’s the injured party. It’s all sickening.
And right on schedule, here come the hot, frustrated tears.
I’ve always had this problem. When I know I’m completely screwed and no one will listen, no one will help, my rage usually takes the form of tears.
I hate this helpless feeling. I’m completely out of control of my own life, and it makes me want to scream.
I want to tear this room apart, though there’s really not that much to tear apart.
The cot is bolted to the wall—I already tested that.
Besides, I know he’s watching. There’s a camera above the door, tiny, maybe the size of a button. He has to control everything. Has to sit back like some god overlooking his creation.
That’s why I lie still. That’s why I won’t show him what this is doing to me.
How exhausted and hungry and sore I am from lying in the same position all this time on a cot with a mattress so thin it might as well not exist. I can’t show it.
He has taken so much from me. I won’t let him take my pride, too.
It’s the only thing I have left that’s mine, not that I ever had much of my own in the first place.
How does a person who has spent her whole life being a prisoner build anything of her own when she never gets the chance?
I need to stop thinking, because all it does is make me feel worse, but what else is there to do? I thought I was bored before, locked in a comfortable bedroom. I guess that will teach me to be grateful for what I have when I have it.
I don’t have the first clue how much more time passes, but it has to be hours that I spend drifting in and out of thin, restless sleep.
There are a bunch of strange, half-formed dreams sprinkled in there, like the sort of dreams I have when I’m sick.
Maybe I am sick. Maybe all of this has taken a bigger toll on me than I can handle.
All I know for sure is the creaking of the door snaps me out of it and makes my heart stutter. I don’t move, just like before, facing the wall without showing any surprise.
I might be calm and still on the outside, but inside is another story. Inside, I’m shaking, my mind racing almost as sickeningly fast as my heart. What’s he doing now? Punishing me for not giving him what he wants? Is he going to question me again?
His silence is the most unnerving thing of all. My nerves are shredding, and all of the ugly, painful things I want to scream at him hang on the tip of my tongue while I hold my breath, waiting. Is this the new game? Pushing me until I break down?
There’s a soft shuffling of feet, and my body stiffens. He’s coming closer. He stops next to the cot—I feel him, I even smell his cologne. Get it over with already.
There’s no such thing as staying silent when he touches me. I flinch with a gasp, but that doesn’t stop him from sliding his arms under my curled-up body and lifting me off the cot.
Fresh, boiling panic explodes in my head as he walks me out of the cell.
What if he’s taking me somewhere even worse?
What if this was just the beginning of what he plans to do, and he’s only been getting the pieces in place?
I want to fight. I want to kick and scream, but he’s holding me too tight against his hard chest. My heart hammers against my ribs, and I can barely breathe, but pride won’t let me say a word.
I can’t let him see my terror. He’s already taken so much from me as it is.
When he stops at the bedroom door, I hold my breath all over again.
Then he steps through into the room, and I don’t know if I want to weep with relief or shake harder than ever with fear.
It’s damn eerie, the way he doesn’t speak.
I can’t even get a sense of whether he’s angry or not. Whether this is just another game.
He doesn’t put me down until we reach the bathroom.
He sets me on my feet, then turns to the shower without a word and reaches inside to run the water.
What the hell? He thinks I’m going to shower with him after all of this?
I probably shouldn’t put up a fight, since I could use one, but I would rather rot than let him touch me again.
That’s not what he’s come for, as it turns out. All he does is step back without a word, then leave me alone with the shower still running.
Pride is one thing, but I’m in desperate need, if only to wash away the memory of Selina grabbing me like she did.
I can’t erase what happened, but I can at least wash her off me.
The first drops of water to hit my bare skin are a gift.
I close my eyes and let it run over my hair and my skin, trembling with relief, letting the warmth seep into my stiff joints until they start to loosen.
It takes a little time of me standing completely still before I bother picking up the mesh sponge and scrubbing my skin like I can scrub away the fear and confusion, the frustration and rage.
I wish that was possible, but I know better.
I’ve spent my whole life enraged, ignored.
I can’t even say I was misunderstood, since Dad never tried to understand me in the first place. Why would he? I was never worth it.
And here I am again, back where I started.
The worst part is knowing how much better Liam thinks he is than Dad.
He holds himself so superior, like he isn’t the same bankrupt soul wrapped in different flesh.
That’s all he is, but he’ll never understand that.
Whatever helps him sleep at night, I guess.
My scalp stings, no matter how gently I lather my hair. Just another reminder of Selina’s viciousness. But that will go away, like the pain in my knees will, like the pain from Dad’s punishments always did. It never lasted forever.
What stays is the memory. The bitterness.
It’s eating me up inside, like always, burning a hole through me.
He believed her without bothering to ask questions.
He had the nerve to act like I was the problem when I wouldn’t give him the answers he suddenly decided he felt like asking for.
And now, I guess I’m supposed to be grateful that I’m allowed to wash myself.
He probably expects me to thank him. I’d rather choke on my own tongue.
My fingers are starting to prune by the time I’m finished.
Sliding open the shower door, I reach for a towel and wrap myself in its softness, letting myself soak in a little extra comfort after spending so long in that miserable cell.
I see now, looking through the steamed-up window, that it’s fully dark outside.
There’s no way this is the same day. He must’ve kept me in there overnight.
Why did he pull me out now? This is a new kind of torture. All the questions, wondering what his next move is going to be, whether he’s furious with me or just decided I’ve been through enough.
At some point, while I was washing, he left a folded pair of pajamas sitting on the closed lid of the toilet.
It’s unnerving, the way he can walk around so silently.
Just one more thing to keep me on edge. I pull them on after drying off, and I can’t help but sigh when the soft cotton touches my skin.
The simplest pleasures mean so much more after spending what felt like forever without the first clue what was happening or when it would end.