Chapter 21 Forced Function
Forced Function
The anger came on day four. Or five. Or twelve. Time had lost meaning in my couch prison, but suddenly, between one heartbeat and the next, rage bloomed like a poisonous flower in my chest.
"Fuck you."
The words came out cracked and raw, directed at walls that had heard only begging for days. My throat screamed from dehydration, but the pain felt real. Felt like something other than the endless ache of abandonment.
"Fuck you for leaving me like this." Louder now, though still barely a whisper. "For making me need you then disappearing. For turning me into this... this thing that can't even get water without permission."
The anger felt wrong. Felt like betrayal of everything he'd trained into me. Good girls didn't get angry. Good girls accepted what they were given. Good girls waited patiently for their owners to return.
But their owners were supposed to return.
"You promised," I told the empty apartment, forcing myself to uncurl one muscle at a time. "Said forever. Said mine. Said you'd keep me."
My legs screamed when I tried to straighten them. How long had I been folded into myself? Long enough for joints to forget their purpose. Long enough for muscles to atrophy from disuse. Long enough that standing felt like rebellion.
But I stood anyway. Swayed, caught myself on the coffee table, stayed vertical through pure spite.
"I could die here." The realization came with another wave of anger. "Die waiting for you because you programmed me to need permission for basic survival. Is that what you wanted? A dead pet as testimony to your training skills?"
The kitchen seemed miles away, but rage propelled me forward. Each step felt like betrayal—of him, of my training, of the good girl I was supposed to be. But underneath the guilt was something sharper. Harder. A spark of the old Lilah who'd rather burn down the world than die quietly.
Water first. My hands shook as I filled a glass, and I almost asked permission before drinking. Almost waited for approval that would never come. But the anger overrode conditioning just enough to bring glass to lips.
The first sip hurt. Everything hurt. But it was real pain, physical and immediate, not the endless emotional agony of abandonment. I drank slowly, carefully, aware that too much too fast would make me sick. Some desperate part of me imagined him watching, approving of my caution even in rebellion.
"See?" I told the surveillance that didn't exist. "Still being good. Still taking care of your property. Even though you abandoned it."
The money mocked me from its place on the counter. I wanted to burn it. Wanted to scatter it from the windows and watch it flutter away like the promises he'd made. But that would be wasteful, and good girls weren't wasteful.
"Fuck being good."
But even as I said it, I handled the money carefully. Placed it in a drawer where I wouldn't have to see it. Evidence of transaction completed. Payment for services rendered. Here's your money, now disappear and pretend twelve weeks of transformation never happened.
My phone—when had I retrieved it?—lay on the counter with its cracked screen. Still functional despite my tantrum. I stared at it, this bridge to a world I'd forgotten existed. Somewhere out there, people were living normal lives. Making choices without permission. Existing independently.
The thought terrified me.
But dying terrified me more. And that's what was happening—slow death by conditioning. Withering away because I couldn't act without approval from a man who'd made sure I'd never find him again.
"Pizza." The word felt foreign. When had I last chosen food? Weeks of being fed by his hand, meals selected for optimal nutrition and control. But pizza was simple. Pizza was what the old Lilah would order. Pizza was rebellion disguised as normalcy.
My fingers shook as I navigated the app. So many choices. Toppings and crusts and sizes that felt overwhelming without someone telling me what I was allowed. I closed my eyes, stabbed randomly, ordered whatever my finger landed on.
"See?" I whispered to ghosts. "Can make decisions. Can function. Don't need you."
The lie tasted bitter, but I swallowed it with more water.
Forty minutes until delivery. Forty minutes to remember how to be human. I forced myself toward the bathroom, each step a small betrayal of trained stillness. The mirror showed a stranger—hollow eyes, matted hair, that expensive nightgown wrinkled and stained with tears.
"You look like shit," I told my reflection. "He'd be so disappointed."
The thought nearly sent me back to the couch. But the anger held, fragile scaffold keeping me upright. He'd left me. Lost the right to disappointment when he'd abandoned his creation.
The shower took three tries to figure out. Different from his, with controls that didn't make intuitive sense. But eventually, hot water poured down, and I stepped under it still wearing the nightgown because removing it felt like too many decisions.
The water hit like absolution. Like punishment. Like the baptism I'd never gotten after he rebuilt me. I stood there, letting it soak through silk, washing away days of crystallized tears and accumulated grief.
"I hate you," I told the water, told him, told myself. "Hate what you made me. Hate that I still love you. Hate that I'm standing here imagining you're watching, approving of me taking care of myself."
But I did imagine it. Couldn't stop. Every move felt performed for an audience of one who'd never see it. Look, Daddy, I'm showering without being told. See how good I am? How well I can follow implied protocols even abandoned?
The nightgown came off eventually, peeled away like a second skin.
I found soap—his preference in scent, because of course this apartment would be stocked with things he'd chosen.
Washed mechanically, trying not to think about the last time these hands had touched my body.
How they'd mapped territory they'd claimed forever.
"Liar." The word echoed off tile. "Beautiful, perfect liar who built me into something that can't exist without you."
Clean felt strange. Human felt stranger.
I found towels—plush and perfect like everything in this designed life.
Dried off while avoiding my reflection, unable to face evidence of his abandonment.
No collar marks remained. No bruises from his hands.
Like he'd been erased from my skin as thoroughly as from my life.
The doorbell made me panic. Pizza. Real world intruding on my bubble of grief. I grabbed a robe from the closet—silk, of course, expensive as everything else—and managed to answer.
The delivery boy looked twelve. Looked terrified of the wild-haired woman who paid in cash pulled from that cursed envelope. I over-tipped massively, partly from inability to calculate normally, partly as apology for existing in my current state.
Pizza in hand, I returned to the couch. My prison had become my safe space—familiar in its misery. But sitting felt like surrender, so I ate standing at the counter like the old Lilah would have. Mechanical bites of food that tasted like cardboard and rebellion.
"Still taking care of myself," I reported to no one. "Still being your good girl, just... independently. Because you left me no choice."
The food sat heavy, body unused to solids after days of nothing. But I forced down three slices. Enough to prove I could. Enough to fuel whatever came next.
Because something had to come next. Couldn't live forever in this limbo between who I'd been and who he'd made me. Couldn't die waiting for permission that would never come. Had to find some middle ground where Bunny's conditioning could coexist with Lilah's survival instinct.
My phone buzzed—the new one, pulled from wherever, already cracked from another tantrum I didn't remember. An email notification. First contact from the outside world since waking in this purgatory.
From: Mom
Subject: How's Europe?!
Sweetie! It's been three months since you left for that amazing opportunity. I know you said you'd be busy with training, but drop us a line when you can. Your father is driving me crazy asking if you've sent pictures yet. Love you!
Europe. Right. The cover story he'd created. Lilah was in Europe, taking advantage of a vague but impressive opportunity. Not being systematically broken down and rebuilt in a facility that might not even exist.
Two weeks. That meant I'd been here, in this apartment, for at least two days. Maybe three. Lost time that would need accounting for eventually.
But the email gave me something. A framework. A story I could step back into if I could remember how Lilah worked. How she moved and spoke and existed without needing permission for every breath.
"I can do this." Saying it aloud, trying to manifest truth through repetition. "Can pretend to be her again. Can send emails about fictional Europe while dying inside. Can play normal while being anything but."
Another email popped up. Then another. Friends checking in. Former coworkers curious about my sudden departure. A world that had kept spinning while I'd been remade and unmade.
The old Lilah would have responded immediately. Would have crafted stories about adventures and opportunities. But my fingers hesitated over keys, waiting for permission to type. Waiting for him to tell me what to say, how to say it, who I was allowed to be.
"Fuck." The word came out tired now, anger banking to exhausted ember. "How am I supposed to be her when I can't even remember how she worked?"
But I had to try. Had to fake functionality until it became real. Or until I found him. Or until I gave up entirely. Whichever came first.
Hi Mom, I typed slowly. Sorry for the radio silence. Training has been intensive.
Truth hidden in lies. Or lies wrapped around truth. Hard to tell anymore.
Everything is amazing here. Learning so much. Can't wait to tell you all about it when I get back.
When would that be? When would Lilah return from her European adventure? When would I have to face people who knew the before version and pretend the after didn't exist?
Give Dad my love. I'll send pictures soon.
Of what? This apartment I hadn't chosen? My hollow eyes? The designer clothes that fit perfectly over my emptiness?
But I sent it anyway. First successful independent action in days. Proof I could fake humanity even if I couldn't feel it.
"See?" I told the apartment, told him, told myself. "Can pretend. Can lie. Can be Lilah on the outside even if Bunny is screaming on the inside."
More water. Another slice of pizza. Basic maintenance of a body that still felt more his than mine. I'd exist. I'd function. I'd fool everyone into thinking Lilah had returned from Europe enriched by experience.
They'd never know she'd died there. Been murdered with kindness and rebuilt as something that shouldn't exist without its creator. They'd never see Bunny bleeding out behind Lilah's eyes.
"I'll be good," I promised the empty rooms. "Take care of your property even though you abandoned it. Keep it functional and clean and ready in case you come back."
The words felt like prayer. Like the kind of bargaining dying people do with gods they're not sure exist. But what else did I have? Without the framework of his control, I was just conditioning without purpose. Training without application.
So I'd apply it myself. Create structure from remembered commands. Be the good girl he'd built even without his presence to reinforce it. Not because I believed he was watching—that delusion had passed—but because being his good girl was all I knew how to be anymore.
"Bedtime protocol," I announced to no one as darkness settled over the city. "Brush teeth. Skincare routine. Appropriate nightwear."
I moved through the motions mechanically. Found toothbrush and products arranged exactly as he would have wanted. Of course. This whole apartment was designed to his specifications, built for the doll he'd created then abandoned.
The closet offered dozens of nightgown options. I chose simple cotton—rebellion in its plainness. Crawled into the bed that still felt wrong, arranged pillows in poor approximation of his presence.
"Good night, Daddy," I whispered to darkness. "Wherever you are. Whatever you're doing. Your Bunny was a good girl today. Ate food and drank water and took a shower without being told."
Tears came again, but quieter now. Exhausted grief rather than active agony. I'd survived a day of consciousness. Managed basic self-care. Sent an email. Small victories that felt like Everest.
Tomorrow I'd try again. Force more humanity. Answer more emails. Maybe even leave the apartment, though the thought made me sick. Step by step, I'd build a facsimile of a life while the real me withered inside.
Because what else was there? He'd made sure I couldn't find him. Made sure no trace remained. Left me with money and clothes and this beautiful prison where I could pretend to be human while dying of conditioned need.
"I hate you," I whispered one more time. "But I'll be good anyway. Because you rebuilt me into someone who doesn't know how to be anything else."
Sleep came eventually. Fitful and full of dreams where he explained everything. Where this was just advanced training. Where I'd wake in his arms, praised for surviving the hardest test.
But morning would come, and with it the reality of another day pretending to be Lilah while Bunny rotted inside her skin. Another day of forced function. Another day of being good for a master who'd vanished like smoke.
Another day of proving that his conditioning went bone-deep.
That even abandoned, I was still his good girl.
Forever and always.
Whether he was watching or not.