17. Ophelia
OPHELIA
As we are leaving the group therapy session, filing out the same way we filed in, the lights go out. For a moment, I falter, unable to move in case I fall. My heart thuds, but I try to remain calm. What if it’s him? Oh, God, what if he’s found me?
The meeting hall is in the middle of the building and doesn’t have any windows, so we’re plunged into pitch black. Someone screams, and a flurry of worried voices fills the air.
“It’s just a power cut,” the woman shouts. “Nobody panic. The emergency lights will come on shortly.”
Sure enough, a ghostly red light flickers to life. It’s emitted from spotlights in the baseboards and reminds me of lights on an airplane. Not that I’ve seen them for myself—I’ve never even stepped foot on a plane—but I have seen them in action movies.
A male voice calls from the corridor. “Everyone return to your rooms in an orderly manner.”
I never thought I’d be happy to end up back in that room, but it’s got to be better than group therapy.
I still want to close my eyes, despite the upper I’ve taken.
The doors set along the corridors all look the same, but I somehow remember the number on my door and let myself in.
At least it has a window, albeit barred, which looks out onto the landscaped gardens, so it’s brighter in here.
As the door swings shut behind me, a foot jammed into the gap prevents it from closing completely.
It opens again, and Carter appears. I’m too drugged to react fast. The upper my friend gave me means I’m not totally out of it, but my reactions are still too slow.
He slips into the room and closes the door behind him, then reaches into the corner of the room to angle the security camera at the ceiling.
Understanding hits me.
I open my mouth to scream but he’s on me in an instant, hooking his arm around my neck, his fingers clamping over my lips. I can taste the salty sweat from his clammy palms.
“Don’t do anything stupid, bitch,” he hisses against my ear, “or this will only end up worse for you. You might be planning to tell someone about me, but whatever you think you’ve experienced can easily be explained away by these paranoid delusions you have.”
Maybe he’s right, but I won’t go down without a fight. I scream against his palm, and struggle in his grip. I hate that I’m so small. I’m barely making any impact.
Was he the one who turned off the lights? Did he do it deliberately, knowing we’d be sent to our rooms and he’d catch me alone while the rest of the staff are distracted?
“Keep struggling. I like it.”
He jams his crotch up against my hip, and I can feel his hardness.
Does he plan to rape me here, in the room, with other patients and his colleagues walking around outside?
Blind panic surges through me. I can’t let this happen.
After everything I’ve gone through, somehow this feels like the worst. I will lose my mind if Carter forces himself inside me. I’ll be ruined, for good this time.
But Carter doesn’t give a shit about how I feel. He knows I’ve been drugged, and I’m basically helpless. He keeps one hand clamped over my mouth and grabs my breast with the other one, squeezing hard. Pain shoots through me.
“Itty bitty titties,” he sneers.
I whimper, my eyes filling with tears. I try to yank out of his grip, but the headlock he has me in makes it impossible.
He releases my breast, but my relief only lasts for the briefest of moments.
He yanks down the back of my pants—the elastic waistband doing nothing to challenge him—and then fumbles with his own clothing.
I flip out, trying to elbow and kick out at him, but my movements are sluggish and ineffectual. My pants are halfway down my legs now and only hinder my movements. My panties are still in place, but they won’t be for much longer.
Carter laughs. “You know you’re only turning me on.” His fetid breath brushes over me, making me want to vomit. “I’d think you’d be grateful someone wants you, with your ugly scar and scrawny body. You’re going to feel what a real man can do for you.”
He shoves me forward, until my legs hit the bed, and then he folds me over it, using his bodyweight to pin me down.
Over the pounding of my heart, the blood rushing through my ears, and my muffled screams, I hear something.
Did I just hear my name?
I could have sworn someone outside asked which room Ophelia Sinclair was in, and, in my distraught mind, I’d heard them say it in Roman’s voice. I know I must be hearing things.
After all, if my brain can conjure up the Prophet’s voice, it can sure as hell create Roman’s.
The ugly truth is, I’m alone. No one is here to save me.