Put Up A Fight
Aviana
Everything is blurry when I come to. My head is heavy, my body sluggish. “What… where am I?” I manage to ask, my voice barely coherent.
"There you are, my Little Bird. Must’ve overdone it this time," he says, his tone metallic and distorted, as if filtered through machinery.
“What happened?” I croak, straining to piece together the fragments of my memory.
“You put up a fight. We can’t have that, can we? Not when you make such a scene,” he replies with a detached amusement that sends a shiver down my spine.
Then the memories come flooding back—not just the warmth of hiking with Hazel, her laughter echoing through rustling leaves, but something darker, more immediate. I vividly recall Nightshade’s gloved hand pulling out a syringe, the cold metal glinting in the dim light. The image sears through the haze, a stark reminder of the terror I endured.
I stare at him, horror and realization dawning. “You… you did this to me. What did you do?” My voice trembles as tears well up, but I swallow hard. I won’t cry. Not in front of him. He doesn’t deserve my tears.
“I like this,” he says, watching me closely. “You act strong when you’re on the verge of breaking. That’s what you need to work on, Little Bird. I know just how strong you are. I have seen it.”
“What are you talking about? ”
“You know who I am, Little Bird” he replies simply, stepping back toward the counter cluttered with various items. “You’re scared, and that’s understandable. But I’ve told you before—I won’t hurt you.”
I laugh bitterly, the sound hollow. “You drugged me, brought me here, tied me up like an animal.”
He turns back toward me, holding a belt. My blood runs cold at the sight of it. Memories flood in, unbidden and cruel.
“Little Bird, hey baby, look at me.” I felt a gloved hand stroke my cheek. I had closed my eyes tight so I could try to remove all images of Mr. Widlow from my memory. “Open those beautiful gray eyes of yours.”
***
Past
Age 10
Mr. Widlow always carried a spare belt—he’d call it “just in case.” Just in case I burned dinner. Just in case I forgot something. Just in case I existed in a way that displeased him.
WHACK.
“You’re worthless,” he’d growl. “Can’t even cook a damn meal without ruining it. Maybe Mrs. Widlow needs to teach you multiple times a day how to cook a proper meal.”
Punishment always followed. Sometimes it meant skipping school to stay home and “work on your womanly duties,” as he called them. “Educated women are dumb women,” he’d say. “All you need is to cook, clean, and take care of your man.” His words echoed endlessly, even though I was only ten—a child with no man to care for, no life of my own.
Once, I’d been mopping the front entryway when he came home early. The floor was wet, and he slipped, sprawling awkwardly in his fancy shoes. I froze, my breath caught somewhere between shock and fear. I should’ve run. Instead, I stood there, rooted to the spot, and I didn’t see the belt coming.
WHACK.
The sting bit into my arms, my hands, leaving trails of fire on my skin. My scream tore through the house, wild and inhuman .
WHACK.
“Keep screaming,” he hissed. “I’ll beat it out of you.”
***
“Little Bird, hey,” Nightshade’s voice pulls me back to the present. A gloved hand brushes against my cheek. My eyes had snapped shut, retreating from the vivid memory of Mr. Widlow. “Open those beautiful gray eyes of yours,” he coos, mockingly gentle.
I open my eyes, glaring at him.
“Please—”
“What are you begging for, Little Bird?” He leans in close, his voice a low rumble. “Remember what we practiced last night. Take control of the fear. Don’t let it control you.”
“Don’t hurt me,” I whisper.
He frowns, almost as if offended. “I told you—I would never hurt you. How many times must I say it?”
He undoes the restraints on my hands. The moment I’m free, I lunge for his face, desperate to rip the mask off and see who he is. But he’s faster, catching my hands and twisting them together in his.
“Not so fast, Little Bird,” he says with a dark chuckle.
“Why are you doing this?” I demand. “Why me?”
He tilts his head, studying me. “Because you need this.”
“What?” My voice rises, incredulous. “Are you insane?”
“Semantics,” he says dismissively, his tone maddeningly calm. “You’re not fighting hard enough.”
“Oh, sure,” I snap, sarcasm dripping from my words. “Please, go ahead. Do whatever you want to me. I’m thrilled.”
“Don’t tempt me with a good time,” he smirks.
When he turns back to the counter, I make a desperate attempt to slide off the table. But he is on me faster.
“Tsk, tsk. Did you think it’d be that easy?” His fingers brush my cheek softly, a contradiction to the icy chill in his words. The way he touches me, so gentle, is almost worse than anything else he’s done.
I try to recoil, but he holds me steady, his grip firm yet oddly comforting in a way I can’t explain. “You’re not going anywhere, Little Bird. Not until you give me what I want.”
I swallow the lump in my throat, forcing myself to meet his dark gaze, the one that seems to see right through me. “And what is that?” I manage to hiss, my voice trembling with the weight of the fear I’m trying so hard to suppress.
His voice is laced with something dark, almost predatory. “You. Your fear.” He steps closer, his presence suffocating, overwhelming. Though I can’t see his smile beneath the mask, I can feel it in the way he speaks—in the cruel amusement threading through his words.
His tone softens, almost coaxing, like he’s trying to seduce me into this twisted game. “Let me show you how to take control of it… or give it to me completely. I will protect you from everything you fear.”
The words echo in my mind, but instead of reassurance, they send a ripple of panic through me. He’s offering me something, but I can’t tell if it’s freedom or a deeper kind of captivity. I hesitate, my mind racing as I weigh my options, but all I can focus on is the way his touch sends a shiver through me—unwelcome, yet impossible to ignore.
My heart pounds, breath hitching in my chest. I force myself to remember Dr. Flores’ yoga classes—closing my eyes, I breathe in, breathe out.
“Such a good girl,” Nightshade murmurs.
The words hit me like a bolt of lightning, cold and sharp, slicing through my chest. I freeze, my heart pounding in my ears. I hate that phrase. It’s always done something to me, something deep and raw, like it drags up memories I can’t shake. I shouldn’t feel this way, not here, not with him. But when he says it, a storm stirs inside me, emotions I can’t quite control flooding through my veins. It terrifies me how much it affects me.
Slowly, he steps between my thighs, making me open my eyes to see him, brushing my hair away, his movements deliberate.
“There she is,” he says, his voice low and steady. “See? It’s not so difficult, is it?