Page 90 of His Puppet

I lie limp in the man’s arms as he carries me down the stairs. He sets me on a plush surface, a bed,mybed, and pulls the bag off my head. Without a word, he leaves, and I’m left alone in my own personal hell. I don’t bother begging or bargaining with him. I feel a sense of defeat that weighs down my body and pulls the tears from my eyes.

As I look around the room, none of the panic I thought I would feel is present, only sadness. It’s exactly as I remember it. The pink walls. The canopy princess bed. The torture room separated by a curtain hanging as a door. The wine cooler off to the side.

I think he designed this space this way on purpose. One half of my hell is plush and cozy, with a shelf of books, pretty handmade furniture, a television with an assortment of DVDs, a minifridge that used to be stocked with all of my favorite snacks and sodas.

The other half is designed purely for pain. There’s a distinct separation from the two spaces with the concrete floor meeting soft carpet.

It was all a reminder for me of what my life could be if I was good and what it could be if I was bad. It gave an illusion of choice, a reason to behave, to be his ‘good girl.’

I wonder if he’ll bother giving me that choice this time.

I lay back on the bed and let silent tears roll to the soft, white comforter. When the door to the room opens, I close my eyes and try to think of some possible way to get out of here. It took so long to find a way the first time, now it seems hopeless. His alarm system, the cameras, the gate, thelockshe must have put on everything.

I’ll probably never leave this room again.

There’s hardly any noise as he comes down the carpeted stairs, but I can feel his ghostly presence. He’s quiet, reserved. Always has been. You would never see the sinister side of him if it wasn’t happening right in front of your eyes.

The bed sinks with his weight as he sits, and I stiffen when his cold hand rests on my knee.

He runs his hand down to my taped ankles while my stomach convulses.

“Hi, sweetheart.”

I keep my mouth and eyes shut and try to take my mind somewhere else. I think of Blade. Of his hands and lips on me. I think of his face when he sleeps, so vulnerable and soft, the only time he looks that way.

“I hate that you had to be restrained like this.” I can hear the frown in his voice, and it makes me want to slap him.

“I wanted to rescue you sooner, but the men who found you said your Stockholm Syndrome was bad enough they didn’t believe you’d come home willingly. So this was the only way.” His hand tucks between my shins and slides back up my legs to rest between my thighs.

Finally, I open my eyes. My teeth grit. “This is not my home.”

Uncle Gordon sighs. “Of course it is, my sweet girl. It’llalwaysbe your home. I will never,everlet anyone take you again. I promise you.”

“Stop,” I snarl, shifting to try and get away from his touch. He holds me still and shoves his hand into my shorts, holding my inner thigh forcefully with the silent threat. I do my best to ignore his hand. “Stop pretending this is anything different from what it is.”

“Oh, babygirl—”

“Stop it!” I shove myself to a sitting position and yank backward on the bed. His eyes gleam with rage from me pulling away from him again. “Just fucking stop!” My hoarse throat burns, and angry tears run down my face. “You’re going to keep me down here like a prisoner. You’re going to torture and rape me. I ran fromyou.Youhad me taken.Youare a sick piece of shit who deserves to rot in hell. Just fucking own up to it!”

He takes a deep breath and raises his chin. New wrinkles stand out to me, and he’s stopped dying his gray hair, but that look in his eye, the one that hints at the man who he really is, is still there.

“Are you sure you’d like that, sweetheart?”

I want to spit out my answer, but I can’t bring myself to. I’malmostthat brave. Almost. But the fear of what he’ll do next is too great. My instincts tell me to slip back into my old ways, to pretend I was kidnapped by someone else, held hostage all these years, just like he wants me to. Why? Because the plush side of the room feels the best, and this man makes me a coward… Mostly.

“No,” I say, swallowing the anger that’ll hurt me more than help. I flick my eyes to the wine cooler just for a moment and wonder if he still has bottles in there. Anything sharp. “I’m sorry,” I say, wanting to puke at how sincere my fear is.

He smiles. Not smugly like you’d think, but like he’s actually happy with my behavior. Hewantsto pretend. He wants to go back to raping me, as if the past five years never happened.

He scoots up the bed and puts his hand on my knee. I force myself not to flinch. “Good girl.”

My lip curls in disgust, and he must notice because he twitches with anger. “Areyou my good girl, Emily?”

I take too long to answer, and he squeezes my knee.

“Yes, Daddy,” I say, hating myself.

He eases his hold and pats my knee. “Good. Let’s get this silly tape off you then. We have lots of catching up to do.”

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