Chapter 6 Identity
Identity
Day four started wrong.
I rolled over, every muscle protesting. The bruises from yesterday's belt had bloomed into a masterpiece of purple and black across my ass. The memory of the pacifier—of coming from words alone—sat like acid in my throat.
"Compliance with morning routine affects privileges. You have five minutes to get up."
I dragged myself vertical, moving like an old woman. The bathroom door opened at my approach, same as always. But something was different. The pink toothbrush had been replaced with a white one, and on the handle, in tiny letters: BUNNY.
"What the fuck?" I picked it up, staring at the word like it might bite. "Where's my regular toothbrush?"
"Bunny's toothbrush is available for use."
"My name is Lilah."
Silence.
I tried again. "Hello? I need my toothbrush. The normal one."
Nothing. The speaker remained dead.
"This is ridiculous." I set the Bunny toothbrush down, crossing my arms. "I want to speak to someone. Anyone. Dr. Mire, if he's listening."
Still nothing.
Fine. I'd brush my teeth with my finger before I'd use something labeled with a name that wasn't mine. The shower worked normally, at least, though I noticed the shampoo bottle now had a small bunny sticker on it. Cute. Real cute.
When I emerged, wrapped in my towel, today's clothes waited: a soft blue dress with—for fuck's sake—tiny embroidered bunnies along the hem.
"Absolutely not." I addressed the ceiling. "I want different clothes."
Silence.
"Hello? I know you can hear me. This is—I need different clothes. Please."
Nothing.
I stood there, dripping and stubborn, for twenty minutes. The room offered no alternatives. No response to any of my increasingly frustrated demands. Finally, freezing and defeated, I put on the bunny dress.
"Good morning, Bunny. Would you like breakfast?"
"My name is LILAH!" The scream tore from my throat.
The speaker went dead again.
By the time Dr. Mire arrived for our morning session, I was ready to commit murder. Hungry, furious, and dressed like someone's fever dream of Easter, I'd spent two hours talking to walls that wouldn't answer to any name but one that wasn't mine.
He entered carrying his usual tablet and a coffee that smelled like heaven. Today's outfit: charcoal slacks and a black button-down that made his eyes look like storm clouds. The split lip I'd given him had faded to a thin pink line.
"Good morning," he said pleasantly, settling into the vanity chair. "How are we feeling today?"
"We are feeling like our fucking name is Lilah."
"Hmm." He took a sip of coffee, studying me over the rim. "The AI seems to be having recognition issues. Did you try the proper identifier?"
"That's not my name."
"No? Then what should I call you?"
"Lilah. My name is Lilah West. You know this. You've been saying it for three days."
"Have I?" He set down his coffee, tilting his head. "I don't recall using that name. I've called you little one, sweet girl, good baby. But Lilah? That seems so... formal. Distant."
"It's my fucking NAME!"
"Language." He made a note on his tablet. "Though understandable, given the frustration. Tell me, why does this particular protocol upset you so much?"
"Because—" I stopped, forced myself to breathe. "Because names matter. They're who we are."
"Are they? Or are they just labels assigned by others?" He leaned back, crossing one ankle over his knee. "You didn't choose 'Lilah.' Your parents did. It carries their expectations, their hopes. Perhaps even their disappointments."
"Don't psychoanalyze my name."
"I'm psychoanalyzing your attachment to it." He picked up his coffee again. "When did you last feel truly like 'Lilah'? This person you're so desperate to remain?"
"Every day!"
"Really? When you were pouring drinks for handsy drunks? When you were hiding on your friend's couch? When you were signing contracts you didn't read?" His voice stayed gentle, which made it worse. "Has being 'Lilah' brought you happiness?"
"That's not—you can't just take someone's name!"
"I haven't taken anything. I've offered an alternative. A chance to be someone new. Someone without all that baggage." He gestured at my dress. "Bunny could be anyone. Could need things Lilah would never admit to wanting."
"I don't want to be Bunny!"
"Then the AI won't respond. No breakfast requests. No temperature adjustments. No communication at all." He shrugged, infuriatingly calm. "Your choice, of course. Lilah can sit in silence. Or Bunny can have her needs met."
I stared at him, this man who turned identity into a bargaining chip. "You're insane."
"We've established that. The question is: how long will you punish yourself to prove a point?"
"I'm not punishing myself! You're punishing me!"
"Am I? I'm sitting here, ready to begin today's session. Ready to continue your progress. But you're stuck on a word. A label. A collection of letters that represents twenty-three years of poor decisions."
"Fuck you."
"Eventually. But not while you're clinging to an identity that no longer serves you."
Something snapped. I lunged at him, not thinking, just needing to make him hurt like he was hurting me. My fist connected with his chest, solid muscle beneath expensive cotton. Not as satisfying as his face, but something.
He caught my wrist before I could pull back for another swing, spinning me around and pressing me against the wall in one fluid motion. My cheek pressed against cool pink paint, both hands pinned behind my back, his body a line of heat against mine.
"There's my little fighter," he murmured against my ear. "Two days in a row. You're developing patterns."
"Let me go!" I struggled, but he held me easily, efficiently, like restraining violent women was just another Tuesday.
"Why? So you can hit me again? We both know how that ends." His breath ghosted over my neck. "Or is this what you wanted? To provoke a physical response? To make me treat you like Lilah would be treated—roughly, without care?"
"I want you to use my fucking name!"
"No." The word was final, absolute. "That name is gone. That person made choices that led here. Now there's only Bunny, who gets to start fresh. Who gets to be good without all that historical weight."
"I'm not—"
He spun me around, pressing me harder against the wall. Now we were face to face, his storm-grey eyes inches from mine. I could see myself reflected in them—wild, desperate, nothing like the controlled woman I'd thought I was.
"You're fighting so hard," he said softly. "Using violence to avoid feeling vulnerable. It's textbook trauma response. But I wonder..."
"Wonder what?" The words came out breathless.
"What would happen if I gave you something else to fight."
And then he kissed me.
Not gentle. Not kind. His mouth crashed against mine with the same calculated force he used for everything else. One hand tangled in my hair, tilting my head to the angle he wanted. The other pressed against my lower back, holding me in place as surely as any restraint.
I should have bit him. Should have kept my mouth closed, turned away, done anything but what I did.
Which was kiss him back.
I kissed him like I was drowning and he was air. Like I was fighting and winning. Like all my fury and fear could be transmitted through the clash of lips and teeth and tongue. My hands, trapped between us, fisted in his shirt.
He tasted like coffee and control and something darker. Smelled like expensive cologne and clean skin. Felt like every bad decision I'd ever made refined into human form.
When he pulled back, we were both breathing hard. His pupils were blown wide, lips slightly swollen. For once, he looked affected. Real. Human.
"Fascinating," he breathed.
Then his mask slipped back into place, and he stepped away, leaving me gasping against the wall.
"Well." He straightened his shirt where I'd wrinkled it. "That was unexpected."
"You kissed me!" My voice came out too high, accusing.
"I did. And you responded beautifully." He moved to his case, pulling out familiar restraints. "But now we need to address this continued refusal to accept your new identifier."
"You can't just—kiss me and then act like nothing happened!"
"Nothing did happen. I tested a hypothesis about redirecting violent impulses. You provided useful data." But his hands shook slightly as he arranged the restraints. "On the bed, please."
"No."
"No?" He turned back to me, and there—just for a second—I saw heat in those controlled eyes. "Would you prefer I kiss you again? Is that what this defiance is about?"
"I prefer you leave me alone!"
"That's not an option. The bed, Bunny. Don't make me ask again."
"THAT'S NOT MY NAME!"
He sighed, moving faster than thought. One moment I was standing, the next I was face-down on the bed, wrists already being secured to the frame. I bucked and fought, but he worked with the same efficiency as always, adding ankle restraints that spread my legs just enough to feel vulnerable.
"This could be so much easier," he said, producing the vibrator that had become my nemesis. "All you have to do is accept a new name. A fresh start. Why is that so threatening?"
"Because it's mine!" I pulled against the restraints. "My name is the only thing you haven't taken!"
"Haven't I?" He positioned the vibrator with clinical precision, then moved where I could see him. In his hand, a small remote and his tablet. "Let's test that theory."
The vibration started gentle, just enough to make me aware. But the tablet began playing audio, a soft feminine voice repeating:
"Good bunny. Such a good bunny. Pretty bunny. Sweet bunny."
"Stop it." I pressed my face into the mattress. "This is sick."
"This is conditioning." He increased the vibration slightly. "Your body already responds to praise. We're simply attaching that response to a new identifier."
"Good bunny. Perfect bunny. Daddy's good bunny."