Chapter 25
Seraphina
“Baby,” whispers Mama, stroking my cheek. “Tell me something. If you could go anywhere in the world, where would you go?”
“Neverland,” I say without hesitation. “I want to see Peter Pan. I wish I was Wendy so I could fly away with him. He’s so nice!”
Mama shakes her head, tears glistening in her eyes.
“Oh, no, baby,” she murmurs. “He can’t be nice. He’s a man.”
“He’s not a man,” I defend him. “He’s a boy.”
“Boys, men…” She shrugs. “Makes no difference. They’re all alike. They take what they want, then leave us lying in the dirt. And the sooner you learn that, the better.”
I lie in bed, images of Mama haunting my eyes, my back pulsing with pain.
I’m aware of him behind me. I’m not sure exactly where, but I hear him breathing. He’s not sitting on the bed or I’d feel the mattress dip. He must be just behind it, in one of the two chairs by the phone, waiting.
Waiting for what?
Damien gave him permission. What more does he need?
Certainly not my permission. My hands feel cold as I remember the last real interaction we had, when Logan pushed me into the river and watched, drinking a beer, as I nearly sank.
He’s a fucking lunatic.
And now, he’s won me in a game of poker. Is he going to try to fuck me, or what?
Perhaps I disgust him. Yes, that must be it.
Or maybe, just maybe, he has an inkling of the weapon I’ve hidden in my sleeve, and which I plan to use if he so much as touches me.
No, impossible. Who could imagine poor, quiet Seraphina stabbing anyone with a pair of nail scissors?
He did see me staple Damien’s arm, but it only made him laugh. Well, just try to touch me, asshole. You won’t be laughing then.
My father can attest to that. Or he could, if he weren’t dead.
I clench my jaw, a burning sensation rising in my throat.
Logan did try to speak to me at first. Some utter bullshit about how Damien wasn’t serious. He didn’t mean to do it, he wasn’t serious.
According to him, I guess, Damien never does mean to do it. He’s never serious.
Well, fuck Damien. And fuck him.
Now, Logan has grown quiet. But I know enough about men to know he’s bad news.
Not even the threat looming behind me can make me forget the real tragedy, though. The man who tricked me into believing he cared, all while keeping me locked in an apartment against my will, looking in on me once in a blue moon, for the sole purpose, apparently, of his own sexual gratification.
It’s crazy to think I never fully saw him in his true light before.
Insane how I’ve held on to some bullshit illusion all because of how needy I am.
Even when he left me tied to the bed and had Logan come and free me, some part of me still hoped.
A thread, waiting to be broken. It’s broken now, alright.
I’m so pathetic.
Now, Damien’s bet me in a game of poker, lost me, beaten me in front of his friends, then got rid of me, throwing me to a literal wolf.
Guess he wasn’t Peter Pan, after all. Or maybe I’m the one who isn’t Wendy.
A tear slides down my cheek, and I hear Logan shift uncomfortably behind me. He probably sees me crying.
Well, fuck him. It’s not like he gives a shit. He’s probably gloating over me.
So why doesn’t he try to fuck me?
I can’t wait to stab this pair of scissors into his eyeball.
I slip a hand under the arm that’s hiding the weapon, and close my eyes, remembering how it felt, that one time, to stab someone, to plunge the knife in, through the resistance, with the hot red liquid gushing out a moment later, as if his brain had needed a second to communicate to his body that he should be bleeding right now.
Or maybe it was my own brain that had needed a second to understand what my hands had done.
Red hands. Bloody hands.
The image doesn’t terrify me anymore. It makes me smile.
-
I must have fallen asleep at some point because the next thing I’m aware of is a quiet knock on the door. I manage to sit up, wincing at the ever-present pain, and look behind me. Logan is gone.
I hear the quiet woman’s voice calling “Hello”, then her footsteps in the living room. She sets down the tray on the table.
I frown. This is only the second time I’ve heard her speak. I wouldn’t have expected her to break her silence with such an asinine word.
She walks down the hallway and knocks again on the bedroom door before poking her head in.
“You slept right through breakfast,” she says, a fake grin plastered to her face.
I stare at her. What is she doing right now? Trying to make conversation? This is literally the worst time for that.
I sit up, relieved to find that my dress is still on and my panties haven’t moved, at least, not since Damien pulled them up after belting me. I don’t feel anything apart from the lancinating pain on my backside.
Guess Logan hasn’t touched me, after all.
“I set your tray on the dining table,” she says unnecessarily, since that’s where she always sets it. “You have soup, chicken, green beans and cake today.”
I’m more perplexed than ever. I stare at her, willing her to disappear, but she lingers.
“Yes?” I ask, my voice hard.
She takes a step back, her eyebrows raised.
“I just… Damien asked…”
Oh. So that’s what’s going on. Damien washed his hands of me, and now he’s sending others to do his dirty work.
“What did he ask?” I say coldly.
“He asked… well, the truth is, he ordered… he ordered me to dress your wounds.”
I scramble backward, clutching the sheets around me like a shield.
“No.”
“He ordered me to,” she insists, looking close to tears. “I have to follow his instructions.”
“I don’t want you to touch me. I don’t want anyone to touch me. Please go.”
“Damien will be very angry.”
“Damien won’t know. How could he possibly know?”
“I don’t know,” she stammers. “Maybe he’ll see it on the camera. Maybe he’ll come check.”
“I don’t think Damien is watching. And I don’t believe he’ll ever come see me again.” My heart sinks, because I feel the truth of those words.
She hesitates again, then nods.
“I set the tray on the table,” she repeats. “Soup, chicken, green beans, cake.”
I pass a hand over my eyes, feeling like I’m experiencing déjà-vu. “I know. You told me.”
Please go back to being quiet.
“The… the dessert is very good today,” she mutters, before turning around and leaving.
I watch the door close quietly behind her. Then I stand up.
I feel a tiny prick under my arm, and remember the nail scissors pressed there. Time to find a better weapon, because I’m getting out of here, even if I have to kill everyone in Devil Tower.
I go to the kitchen, fumble in the drawers, discarding one knife after another. Too bulky, not sharp enough. None of them really fit the requirements.
Then I spot a bottle opener. It’s actually part of an army knife set, with a cork screw, scissors, and a sharp little knife that seems made for cutting slices of salami on a picnic.
Or human skin.
I head to the shower, staying under the scalding hot water for a long time. Then I choose a dress with pockets, and slip the army knife inside. It makes me feel just a bit safer.
My stomach growls then. The adrenaline has made me hungry.
I remember the tray and sit down at the table, surprised the quiet woman hasn’t come fetch it yet. She usually retrieves it after twenty or thirty minutes, but it must have stayed out here for an hour at least.
I remember her dessert recommendation. I stare at the cake, confused. It doesn’t look better or worse than usual. I’m not really a fan of cake, or of sweet things in general.
I begin to eat ravenously. I used to eat for Damien, and before he bid me in a game of poker and belted me in front of his friends, I had thought of taunting him by refusing food. Now, though, I’m sure he’s not looking at the cameras. He doesn’t care.
But for once, I’m starving. Maybe I’m even more messed up than Damien. Hunger for blood makes me hunger for food too.
I eat the soup, the chicken and the green beans, but I’m still hungry. I guess I will eat the cake after all. I don’t know why the quiet woman was so insistent about it, though.
I’ve eaten a few bites when my fork hits something hard. I frown, intrigued, then carve away at the slice until I’ve reached the hard object. It’s a small metal box that’s been darkened, as if it’s been subjected to high heat. Baked in the cake, I guess.
I open it and find a key around which is twisted a piece of paper. I peel it off and read it.
Not all men are bad.
We don’t abduct girls, or beat them, or pass them to our friends.
We protect them.
If you want our help, unlock your apartment door tomorrow at midnight. We’ll handle the rest.
Angel
I stare at the piece of paper, my heart hammering in my chest. Is it possible that I will finally escape? Moments after resolving to do whatever’s necessary to leave, the opportunity appears before me, falling into my lap—or rather, in my cake—as if by magic.
If I believed in God, I’d be on my knees thanking him right now.
The problem is, I don’t. I haven’t since the first time I noticed that stain of humidity on the ceiling and willed it to protect me.
If God were real, my life wouldn’t be such shit.
So, I can’t help the unease that pervades me as I read the note again, my mind full of suspicions.
Who is Angel? And how can they possibly know what happened to me last night?
Clearly, whoever wrote the note is some other powerful group that’s managed to get intel on Devil. Which means Angel and Devil must be rivals.
I feel a pang of compunction at the thought that my escape might be aided by Damien’s enemy. But I bury it under cold satisfaction. I can’t think of a better way to end whatever relationship I had with him. To show him exactly what the woman he so derisively calls pet is capable of.
Still, even now, after all that’s happened, weakness beats at my throat. If he came right now, if he kissed me and stroked my hair… I have a feeling I’d melt right back into his arms.
I’m such an idiot.
It’s lucky it won’t happen. Damien’s abandoned me, and this time, it’s for good.
-