Chapter 3 Naomi
PRESENT DAY
My eyes snap open to a darkness so thick it’s claustrophobic, my heart pounding like an animal trapped in a cage.
A blood-curdling scream claws its way out of my throat before I can register where I am.
The sound echoes off the walls, reverberating back at me and sending a shiver down my spine.
The scream might be mine, but the sound still rattles my bones.
Before I can even process what’s happening, I hear footsteps approaching quickly, and then the bedroom fills with light as Tristan switches on the lamp.
Max and Tré follow closely behind him, looks of concern slashed into their features.
Tris’ arms wrap around me in a tight embrace, grounding me in an endless sea of sea of dread.
“Hey Ni, it’s okay. You’re here. You’re home. You’re Safe.” Tristan whispers into my ear, his hand moving across my back in soothing circles.
But even as they try to ease my panic, I can't shake the unease of my frayed nerves as my body continues to shake in his embrace. There's a part of me that yearns for the comfort it offers, yet another part is numb, knowing all too well that safety is nothing more than a fleeting illusion.
It always used to be Daddy who comforted me like this, repeating the same mantra over and over again until I calmed down. But now that he and Momma have moved to Portugal full-time, it’s my brothers who step in to ground me and bring me back to reality.
I’m one of the lucky ones, at least that’s what they say.
But in moments like this, huddled in bed with three grown men trying to calm me down, I don’t feel very lucky. Maybe it would have been better if I hadn’t survived at all. Maybe I should have just died. Everyone else would probably be better off.
Luck is not what you feel when you wake up drenched in sweat from haunting dreams of iron grips and being drugged until you don't remember who you are anymore. Or when pity stares back at you from every face. This has been my life since I escaped. And I’m sick of being told that I should be grateful to be still alive.
The man who took me six years ago still inhabits my dreams, an apparition of violent manifestations—my mind plagued by his whispers, threats, and taunts. In these moments, I can’t help but wonder… what if I just ended it all?
They call me lucky for surviving, but they don’t see the scars that run deep beneath my skin, marking every inch of my body as a reminder of what I went through.
There had been no leads to be found from that rain-soaked night.
The place where I had been abandoned was empty, a desolate shell with a "For Sale" sign that seemed to echo my own sense of hollowness. I’d been given a compound that rendered me medically lifeless—at least, that’s what the toxicology report revealed.
That was the only reason I’d gotten away, because whatever Big Red had given me that night had convinced him I was dead.
When I turned back up, my parents whisked me away in a frantic rush to Dr. Felipe Mortez, MD—my family’s doctor and Aisha’s father. He’d helped us hide the extent of what had happened to me, quickly unraveling the mystery of my unsettling condition.
"She has severe dissociative amnesia," Dr. Mortez whispers, his voice barely audible as it floats through the air.
Even though he and my parents had excused themselves to allow me some rest in Wing X— a hospital wing constructed in his home for private clients—curiosity and a need to be no longer left in the dark compelled me to follow them.
Just before the door of his office closes, I manage to wedge my foot into the narrow crack, the cool wood pressing against my skin.
"She remembers her name and fragments of her life... before, but not much else," Dr. Mortez continues, his words tinged with a somber note. "It truly is a miracle she found her way home. Did she say how she got there?"
"No," my father's voice responds, usually resonant and assured, now cracking under the weight of the situation. I have never heard him sound so defeated before. "She hasn't said much of anything since she got back. Do you know if her memories will ever return completely?"
"The mind is a tricky thing, Ric," my best friend's father sighs, each word a painful truth I had feared. My stomach churns, threatening to revolt against the lunch his staff had kindly provided. "It has a funny way of protecting us from things that are too dreadful, too painful to process."
My mother's delicate sob pierces the silence, reaching into the depths of my soul and nearly shattering me. Her vulnerability is palpable, hanging in the air like a fragile glass ornament, threatening to break at any moment.
"Shhh, Solèy, I promise that it will be okay," my father reassures her, wrapping his arms around her gently.
He tucks her head against his chest, pressing a tender kiss on the crown of her hair.
"So what would you recommend?" he asks, turning his attention back to his dear friend, seeking guidance in the dimly lit office.
"Looking at the scans," Dr. Mortez says, swiping the screen of his iPad with practiced fingers, "there is no physical damage, so it's all up to her now.
I would recommend that she see a therapist, or, better still, a psychiatrist. She will need to talk through things.
" His suggestion hangs in the air, a thread of hope amid uncertainty.
A few days after that, my family insisted I see someone “just to talk.” They practically pushed me into the office, hoping it would help. But session after session, I felt like I was just sitting in a chair, talking to a wall.
The office smelled faintly of lavender, and every session ended with me feeling just as tangled up inside as when I walked in.
Seeing little improvement, my family turned to medication.
A “trusted psychiatrist” filled my nightstand with orange pill bottles, each promising to dull the anxiety and fear that gnawed at me day and night.
I despise the way the pills make me feel as if I'm drifting through life in an all too familiar fog, disconnected and sluggish.
Yet, on the worst days, when my thoughts swirl and crash like a relentless storm, they're the only anchor that can steady me. When I am not under a constant fog, I can see the toll all of this has taken on my family. My father and brothers blame themselves for not being able to protect me, and I can hear the pain in Daddy’s voice every time he talks about it with Momma.
A few times, when I couldn’t sleep, I would sneak downstairs and listen to them talking in his office. “Solèy,” He would croak my mother’s pet name, defeat heavy in his tone. “Who am I if I can’t make our kids feel safe…ma petite fleur.” He always sounded like it cut him soul deep.
And Momma would reply without hesitation, “You do make her feel safe, Ric. But she’s not as delicate as you think.”
Hearing those words from her always gave me a small glimmer of hope, like I could be strong enough to keep going. It reminded me that I’m not just a victim. And hopefully one day, I’ll be able to fully believe it.
“Did you take your meds tonight?” My brother Trémaine asks, his voice laced with concern and frustration, snapping me out of bygone memories. I can’t bear to look at him, burying my face into Tristan’s chest as I break down into sobs.
It’s not what he says or even how he says it, it’s the fact that I feel like I will never escape this nightmare. That I will always be trapped in this broken and traumatized state for the rest of my life.
Tré’s voice is closer now, his hand rubbing comforting circles into my shoulder.
“I’ll never understand what you’ve been through, but I…
we just want you to be okay,” he whispers softly, choosing his words carefully.
“I know it’s not ideal, but the medicine seems to help.
” His desperation is tangible, as if my response will determine his own well-being.
I finally look up at him and then at Tristan. They may be identical twins, but their personalities are as different as night and day. The only thing they have in common are their kind, hazel-brown eyes.
“Please, beauty,” Tré pleads. And in that moment, I can see all their hopes and fears resting on my shoulders. They just want things to go back to how they used to be before everything fell apart.
He wipes away a stray tear from my cheek and I nod slowly. “Okay, I’ll start taking the medication tomorrow. I promise.”
My brothers stay for another thirty minutes, hovering over me with their worry and love until I finally shoo them away.
Tristan offers to stay with me for the night and Tré plugs in my nightlight, while Max stands stoically by the door, his face etched with something more than deep concern, his anger is evident— I know it’s not towards me, but the man now embedded into the fabric of our life.
I hate when they do this, their emotions swirling around me like a whirlwind, suffocating me and leaving no room for my own.
“Here, drink this,” Tristan says, handing me my tumbler of water from the nightstand.
I take a greedy gulp of the ice-cold liquid, letting it cool the burning sensation in my throat.
“Thank you for bringing this,” I say, shaking the neon pink cup and listening to the ice clink inside.
The past few days have been a never-ending marathon, leaving me drained and exhausted, often forgetting to remove my makeup or do any part of my usual bedtime routine.
“I didn’t bring it; it was already here,” Tristan says, taking the now ice-filled tumbler out of my hand and placing it back on the nightstand. “Maybe Nan brought it up before bed, just in case.”
Maple, or Nan as we so lovingly took to calling her, has been with us ever since we were kids.
All of our grandparents are deceased, so she is the closest we have ever had to a grandmother.
It wouldn’t be out of character for her, but a gnawing feeling in the pit of my stomach is telling me otherwise. “Are you sure?” I ask anxiously.
He gives me a dry smile, but I can see the concern in his eyes as he notices me fidgeting with my fingers. He gently clasps my hand in his. “I’m sure it was Nan, Ni. No one else can get inside.”
“I’m sorry. I’m just being paranoid,” I sigh, guilt and embarrassment coursing through me at the way he speaks to me like I’m a child needing someone to check under their bed before they can go back to sleep.
They continue to watch me with that look that makes me want to crawl out of my skin: pity. “I’ll be fine, guys, really,” I assure them, even though, deep down, I’m not sure if I’ll ever be truly okay again. “I didn’t mean to wake you up.”
Tristan hugs me one more time while Tré strokes his thumb across my cheek—Max nods from his spot by the door.
With a somber tone, Max breaks the tense silence: “You’ll always be our baby sister.
” His words echo like a haunting whisper, and he gives me a knowing look before he walks out the door.
I want to be relieved as they file out, but as they close the door, I can hear their muffled murmurs in the hallway.
And my blood boils at their hushed conversation.
Nothing infuriates me more than being kept in the dark.
I reach desperately for the aromatherapy machine on my nightstand, trying to drown out the noise with its hum and a calming blend of lavender and vanilla. But tonight, it does nothing to soothe my racing thoughts. I can’t bring myself to close my eyes or calm my mind.
Everybody has this common misconception of how somebody who survived what I did should act. Am I supposed to jump? Or flinch every time a man looks at me? Well, I don’t. Not anymore.
Because I don’t want anyone’s pity.
The pain of what I lost has already carved me down to bone. It hollowed me out; made a ghost of the girl I used to be. And for a while, I let him win. I let fear pull up a chair and sit with me in every room. I couldn’t laugh. I couldn’t look anyone in the eye. I couldn’t even stand the mirror.
But then I realized something—he took a moment from me, but he doesn’t get my life.
So, I stitched myself back together with brimstone and desire, strengthening my resolve.
I reclaimed the parts of me he tried to bury—my smile, my flirt, the sway in my hips, the heat in my stare.
And now, I flirt because I want to. I laugh because it feels good. I dress like desire and walk like sin, not because I’m asking for anything—but because I refuse to be small. I refuse to let what he did define me.
I looked that kind of evil in the eye and didn’t let it turn me into something I’m not.
Don’t get it twisted—I still have my nights, nights like these— the ones where the air gets too heavy, and my chest closes in, and I see shadows where there’s only light. I still have moments where it catches me off guard, when my breath hitches, and my heart stutters.
But even in those moments? I try to remember that I am not the girl lying in a fetal position on the floor anymore.
She can rest now. She got me through hell, but she doesn’t have to carry me anymore.
With a frustrated huff, I throw off my comforter, padding across the room to lock the door before I give in to my primal urges.
It’s shameful and unhinged, but it’s the only thing that makes me feel sane again.
Instant shame floods through me as I slide my panties to the side and suck on my fingers before pressing them inside myself in one swift motion.
Biting down hard on my lip to stifle a cry, I try desperately to drown out the screams and nightmares that haunt me.
The intense pleasure mixed with a hint of pain lulls me into a disturbed state of relaxation. The tears streaming down my face provide an odd sense of comfort, and when I finally reach release, the prolactin hits me like a truck.
As I start to drift off, I swear I hear footsteps coming from inside my closet.
A creak. A whisper of weight shifting on the floorboards. I tense, but I’m already over the threshold of sleep’s warm embrace, and the world tumbles into black as my eyelids snap shut.