CHAPTER FORTY-TWO #3
I didn’t know how to live anymore. Not out there.
Not in the world with choices and consequences and people who expected me to be whole.
Here, at least, I knew the rules. I would know what to expect.
I would know how to survive. Out there, I’d have to rebuild from ash.
I’d have to explain myself. I’d have to face the wreckage.
And I’m not ready. I’m not strong enough. Not yet.
Oliver was powerful. Respected. If I left, he’d find me.
He’d discredit me. If I accused him, he’d twist my words until I sounded insane.
He’d make me look like a grieving woman who lost her mind.
And he’d do it with grace—with philosophy.
He’d quote Plato while he destroys me. And people will nod.
They’ll agree. Because he’s Oliver. And I’m just the woman who couldn’t handle her own grief.
I have nothing. No recordings. No witnesses.
Just letters—letters he kept. Letters he could use against me.
If I speak out, they’ll say I’m unstable.
That I’m suicidal. That I’m chasing ghosts.
I don’t have allies. I don’t have a voice.
I only have my truth, and it’s buried beneath layers of shame and silence.
I’m not Daisy anymore. Not the Daisy who read books and made plans and believed in second chances. That woman died with Rowe. What’s left is a shell. A shadow. A woman who doesn’t know how to be free. I don’t believe I deserve safety. I don’t believe I deserve anything.
I stay because I don’t know who I am without this pain.
I stay because I don’t know how to leave.
I stay because I’m broken.
I stared at the pill from across the room.
My breath was shallow.
My body still.
And then, I whispered so softly it barely touched the air:
“I don’t know how to be me anymore.”
The lamps flickered.
The chains clinked.
And I sat in the lesson room, broken at last.
He wanted to destroy whatever remained of me and rebuild it into his perfect wife. For a long time, I let him believe he had succeeded.
He wouldn’t let me go, no matter what. He was content to watch me wither away before his eyes because if I did die—if I allowed myself to give up—he would simply fault me for being weak.
For if I was the perfect wife that was shaped and molded by his teachings, I wouldn’t have killed myself.
He would view my death as a weakness on my part.
Even though Rowe and June were dead and I had nothing else to live for, I found I did not want to die.
There was something inside of me that clung to life.
That wanted to breathe and feel the sunlight on my skin.
If I died, who would remember my little boy?
It wouldn’t be this man. He would move on to the next vulnerable girl.
I wasn’t the only one.
I couldn’t be.
There were ghosts on this land. Girls who had withered away.
I was surrounded by them. Watched and never left alone.
Eyes, eyes, everywhere. Perhaps their presence kept me from the brink, too.
If they were whispering in my ear, what would they say?
They would tell me to carry on. To not be trapped in the in-between like they were. Without justice. Without peace.
What if I could give that to them—give them peace?
If I died, then the memory of my little boy and sister died too. That frightened me more than living with this unending grief.
If I died, he would get away with it. He would continue living, unscathed, and no one would know the demon they were in the midst of.
If I died, I would be trapped with the girls in this cabin. Trapped and left to whisper in the ears of his next victim.
Living hurt, but I still did not want to die.
I needed to play along. I needed to accept my imprisonment. I needed to be the perfect wife once more. It was the only way I could return to Oliver’s house. I’d be able to lay in Rowe’s bed. Smell his sheets and clothes and bide my time.
Oliver was not going to let me go.
Oliver was obsessed with me more than he let on.
Oliver would kill me if I ran.
To him, I was his perfect student and he was my mentor. I could be the best damn student if I accepted this fate. Even for a little while.
“Do you see?” he would eventually say as he led me out of the room and back into the cabin. “Do you see what life I can give you?”
“I see,” I said.
“I can give you the world. We can build a beautiful home. We can have more kids, Daisy. Won’t that make you happy? Let me give you a baby.”
“Yes, Oliver.”
He cleaned me up. Fed me. Doted on me. Held me in his arms. He was the Oliver I fell in love with.
The beautiful man that rescued me. All the while, he talked.
Promised me good things. Told me I could have the world if only I’d let him give it to me.
Said near the end, “The house will be a little different. I’m concerned for you.
The town…well, everyone’s been asking about you.
To the world, you’re hiding out, mourning, and there are some who are extreme about it, showing up at our door at odd hours of the night.
For your safety, I have the entire house under surveillance.
Alarms will tell me of anyone who dares trespass.
We’ll know every single person coming to the door.
There is nothing we won’t see or hear. I do this to help you grieve and feel safe. I do this so I can protect you.”
He did this to watch my every movement. He did this to know I would never escape without his knowledge. He did this because he needed to know everything I was doing every second he was away.
And I…
I was so tired.
Don’t give up.
But there was no point fighting.
I just needed things to go back to the normal he’d gotten me used to. The normal that meant I could sit in silence, in my own peace, in the house Rowe ran amuck in and be what Oliver needed me to be.
No more fighting.
No more imagining an escape. There was nothing out there for me. Oliver was right. I was nothing.
But to him, I could be perfect.
I just needed to follow the rules.