GRAYSON
To truly break a person of their will, you have to first sever their hold on life itself. London knows this all too well, employing this very tactic with her patients, gradually stripping them, piece by fragile piece, of all hope.
It’s hope that gives a person the strength to endure, to fight, to overcome.
Tolive.
Take that away, and you can reduce a person to a malleable shell, ready to be molded and reshaped. I don’t have to agree with the psychology to appreciate the process. It’s brilliant.
I suppose it appeals to the puzzler in me, the construction more gratifying than the destruction—and that’s why London and I are a perfect match.
Together, we’re complete, a whole.
For years, I’ve been missing a critical element in the process. Torture isn’t enough; physical pain alone merely results in a wish for death. The ultimate breaking point is psychological—the annihilation of the mind. Like a twig bent beyond itsthreshold, the slightest external pressure will snap it clean through.
Admittedly, she’s the one who opened my eyes to this revelation. I tend to stick to what I know, the tried and true methods of my craft. Yet in London’s presence, I find myself lacking.
In time, she’ll grow to appreciate my methods just as I admire hers.
I turn the key, locking the cell door, and pocket my key ring. London is curled up in the center of the cage, looking beaten, defeated—but I know better. She’s dressed in one of my T-shirts and a pair of my sweats, beautifully disheveled.
I didn’t build this dungeon specifically for her. I built it knowing that one day it would fulfill a purpose. A perfectly twisted design orchestrated by fate itself.
“Did your father allow his victims to have a light?” I ask her, relighting the candle that snuffed out during our struggle to put her in the cage.
Her deep gaze narrows, defiant as she says, “How long have you been planning to take me?”
I crouch down and slide a plate of food beneath the bar. Spaghetti and two pain pills. “Take them sparingly,” I tell her. It’s not the freshest meal, but I can only store nonperishables.
“Answer me, Grayson. When did you make this fucking cage for me?”
“London, not everything is a conspiracy against you. That’s the paranoia kicking in.” I tap my temple. “I welded this cell because I’m a welder. I’ve spent time here myself, staring at the bars, getting accustomed to them.” I trail my fingers over the cold iron, then meet her eyes through the space between. “I endured a year incarcerated in solitary confinement. I’m very patient. I’ll wait for you for as long as it takes.”
She pushes herself upright, swiping her tangled hair from her face. “Then at least tell me where we are.”
“That’s not what you’re really asking. Knowing where we are won’t help you.” I settle onto the floor across from her, making myself comfortable. “You want to know the chances that you’ll be found, that the authorities are coming. But this house isn’t in my name. Technically, it doesn’t belong to anyone who can be traced back to me. It’ll be a long time before you’re discovered.”
A tiny spark of hope ignites in her eyes. I’ve given her just enough to keep going, to endure. She’ll need that to survive her dungeon.
“I have to get rid of the car.” I stand and brush down my jeans. It’s liberating to be out of the orange jumpsuit, feeling like myself again. “I can’t risk it being spotted. That would be irresponsible.”
“Don’t leave me.”
Her voice is small, fragile. Kneeling on the floor, surrounded by wrought-iron bars, she looks helpless, almost lost.
Another one of her sins: deceit.
She’s mastered the art of duplicity. To fool others, she has to live her lies. As a narcissist, she even believes them. Like a dam holding back reality, her world depends on falsehood. When London truly reaches her breaking point, only then will the dam give, and the truth rush free.
I don’t have an infinite amount of time, however. I’m not deluded enough to think that this won’t fail absolutely. Her mind is her strongest weapon. And again, that’s her specialty, not mine.
She needs a push.
Bracing my hands on the bars, I say, “It’s strange what impacts us, what defines us. It’s never the good parts from our lives.” I lock onto her eyes. “It’s what guts us.”
She rises to her knees, keeping herself smaller, the illusion of submission. She’s truly an expert.
I smile.
