Chapter 1 #2
But I’m not dead. I feel things. I want things. And some of them, I don’t even understand. Like how I want to be subdued. Thrown on the ground and fucked like an animal.
Disgust curls in my gut even as arousal grows between my thighs.
Maybe I’m a monster too. Maybe that’s what I’ve become.
“How about we start at the beginning again?” the doctor says.
My attention zeroes in on him because I know what he’s going to ask. What he always asks.
“Tell me about the first time you were taken.”
As soon as those words leave his mouth, my stomach heaves, because I don’t want to think about it. I don’t want to remember the time I was ripped from my family and thrown into a world far uglier than I ever realized.
“Isn’t she pretty, boss?” The man with the yellow-stained teeth grins at Agnelo Bianchi, the older man beside him. The one I know to be in charge of the girls and the children.
“Why is she still dressed?” He pops a brow, his brown eyes dark and dirty.
Simultaneously, his mouth curls and I start to tremble and whimper, tears aching behind my eyes.
Please don’t touch me. Please let me go.
My arms are curled tight around my body while I stand in a cold warehouse, nothing but crates and thick pipes all around me.
Two other girls stand on each side of me. Elsie and Jade, though? They aren’t here. They separated us, and the very thought causes me to burst out crying.
The pain stings as I sob and collapse to the floor. But I don’t stop, even as the men scream at me. Even as one drags me up by my hair and slaps my face.
Because my friends could be dead right now.
“Where—” I sniffle. “Wh-where are my friends?”
With eyes born from death, Agnelo paces up to me slowly. My body shudders as he comes closer. As he does, his palm snatches my throat, fingers boring deeper until I find it hard to breathe.
“You don’t ask questions here.” His glare is strong enough to crack glass. He grinds his teeth as he moves his face so close his nose touches mine.
My insides gnaw.
“Now, you’re gonna take off your clothes and show us what you’re hiding. Because I have a feeling you’re gonna make us a lot of money…”
And I did. I made those bastards tons. But I never saw a dime. All we got was moldy pancakes and a stained mattress on the floor.
We lived worse than the rats that scurried past the grass on the lawn. I have no desire to relive those days with anyone. Not my therapist, not my friends, not even myself.
But the truth is, I can’t seem to forget. I can’t seem to let go. Of any of it.
Clearing my throat, I whisper to Dr. Collins. “I don’t want to talk about that.”
Sweat beads across my brow…
I can’t stop seeing Agnelo’s face. He’s there in my mind as though he’s in the room with us.
What they did to me once Elsie ran off… I don’t want to remember any of it.
“Tell me where Elsie is, you stupid whore, or I’ll whip you until your bones break.”
My chest is heavy, as though someone’s sitting on it. I try to keep it together. To pretend. My hands shake, and I curl both into fists and tuck them under my thighs to stop the tremors.
It doesn’t work.
“That’s your choice, of course,” Dr. Collins says, oblivious to my inner turmoil. “But my hope is that at every session we can explore more of that. Make you comfortable enough to talk about it. So that over time, it doesn’t hold power over you.”
“Is that even possible? Do people like me ever truly heal?”
My pulse pounds in my neck as I wait for his answer. Not even sure why I asked in the first place. He’ll just tell me what he thinks I need to hear.
“Healing is a process. It’s work. And even when we think we’re done, there’s still more work to do.”
I scoff. “That’s such a Dr. Collins answer.”
He laughs and shakes his head as he jots something else down on his pad.
I glance at it, my brows gathering. “What are you writing? How hopeless I am?”
He lowers his pen onto his lap. “Do you think you’re hopeless?”
I huff and drop my head to the back of the chair. “Don’t shrink me for just one moment, okay?”
I register his harsh intake of breath before he says, “I never once thought of you as hopeless, Kayla. You’re strong. Resilient. So, if you’re using a word like hopeless to describe yourself, it’s because you may be seeing yourself that way.”
He pauses as I look back at him.
“Are you still having those dreams about hurting your captors?”
I nod.
“Have they become more frequent since the murders began?”
No, they became more frequent when I found out about the traffickers coming back. Maybe even coming for me.
I nod.
“I thought so. It’s not uncommon for similar events to trigger you and cause the nightmares to increase.”
“They’re not nightmares,” I clarify. “They’re more like fantasies.”
His eyes narrow thoughtfully. “Yes, I can see that. Nevertheless, I think it’s imperative you’re aware of the impact the murders have had on you. I also think it would be good if we increased our sessions to twice a week.”
“Okay.” I shrug. “I can do that as long as it’s on Fridays. Other than today, my schedule is busy with school.”
“That’s right. How is that going?”
“As okay as it can be.”
When I decided to go to college, something those monsters took from me, everyone supported me. Though my parents worried about how I would do on my own, especially with having my own place now, they allowed me space.
I couldn’t live with them anymore. They hovered too much. Watched me every moment as though I’d disappear.
I get it. If I were them, I’d probably do the same.
When I first began to live with my parents, I entered a dark place. I barely ate. Barely showered. I could hardly get out of bed. I’d stay awake all night remembering everything.
And I cried. I cried so much my tears would drench the pillow.
My mother knew. She cried too when she thought I wasn’t listening. But I heard. I was breaking her heart all over again.
I wanted to die. Imagined how I’d kill myself. It’d have been easy. Take a bunch of my mother’s pills and drown in them.
The pain would have gone away then. I’d have been…empty. Numb.
There’d have been no more tears.
No more memories of what was.
I’d have been gone. And good riddance.
I couldn’t tell anyone about my thoughts. They’d have institutionalized me. Called me crazy and thrown me in some solitary room for God knew how long.
I’d never allow that.
But one day, when I was with Elsie and Jade, I let it slip, thinking I was talking inside my head.
And that was all it took for me to start therapy.
To start caring for myself the way I should’ve.
Because those monsters? They want me to suffer.
They want to take all the good and strip me bare until I have nothing but my demons.
So I ripped those demons from my soul, and I watched their flesh burn until all that was left of me was who I am today.
But their remnants still linger, still corrupt and enrage me.
Once I got a little better, I moved out. My parents weren’t thrilled with the idea. Who could blame them? They moved to New York from our home state so that I could be near Elsie and Jade. If they hadn’t, I’d probably have had to leave here.
I was staying with Jade and Enzo for a bit after I was rescued, then Elsie and Michael. But I didn’t want to continue to impose on any of them, and I didn’t have money for a place of my own. Once my parents got here and found a place, I moved in with them.
But I wanted freedom. I needed to prove to myself that I could do this alone.
When I told my friends about my desire to get my own place, that I was thinking of renting an apartment in a run-down area in the city, Michael found out and nixed that idea real fast. He bought me a home instead, under an hour from my parents.
Which, of course, thrilled them and is why they absolutely adore that man.
I’m grateful to both Elsie and Michael for what they did for me, and I intend to pay them back every penny, even though Michael vows to give it right back to me.
I’m where I’m supposed to be in my life right now. I’ve come to accept that, thanks to my therapist. More or less…
“They found another body last night,” I say in almost a whisper, my heart racing right out of my chest.
This killer needs to be stopped. Someone has to put an end to him. Too many innocent women have been killed by his hand.
The newest victim was only twenty-three, bright future as a lawyer, engaged to be married, when she was taken while running in Central Park.
She was found three days later—face mutilated, raped, with something carved into her body.
The killer does that to all his victims. Slices his signature into them like they’re his property.
The police won’t tell the public exactly what he carves, probably afraid of a copycat. But that’s how they’ve connected the murders.
“They’ll find him.” Dr. Collins’s comforting voice does nothing to soothe me. “Just stay vigilant, and maybe think about going back to your parents’ for the time being.”
“No.” I shake my head. “I’m tired of having my life implode because of these people. I’m gonna stay exactly where I am.”
He purses his mouth and lets out a deep exhale. “I got my wife one of those watches that can call the police and alerts me of her location. Maybe get one of those and some pepper spray too.”
“Don’t worry, Doctor. I’ve got lots of pepper spray.”
Pretty sure that would be useless against people like that.
But I don’t say that to him. What’s the point? He’ll never get it.
My mind goes back to that poor girl, the madman’s fourth victim.
There’ll be more.
There always is.
Whoever this killer is, he’s vicious. Cruel. And he won’t stop.
Because monsters don’t know how to.
Not until someone does it for them.