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The creep—or should I call him a kidnapper now?—is beautiful in a way that men should not be beautiful. He's the villain you can't help but root for because of the way he makes you feel when he stares at you for way longer than acceptable and sets your skin aflame. He's the anti-hero who shouldn't earn a second look from the heroine, except for that invisible pull between them that demands it.
Everything about him screams at me to run away, but I can't, even if I wasn't in a cage. I'm a deer frozen in the headlights of an oncoming car, only he's the car. I want to run—Ineedto run—but I can't, and we're both going to be damaged even more before this is over.
He has dark, chiseled features and inscrutable eyes that never give away what he's thinking, not unless he wants you to know.
He's tall, six-foot-three, maybe even taller, and massive compared to me. He knows how to use it too, dipping his head to whisper in my ear or rising to his full height when he wants to intimidate. When he was on top of me, flattening his hard body to mine, it felt like he could break all of me without even trying, and there wouldn't be a damn thing I could do about it.
He's a king—a psychopathic mad king—who locks undeserving girls in dark places and defiles them for his own pleasure. And for theirs too, I guess.
The burn mark he left on my throat hurts like a bitch, and I know I should hate him for it. I am trying to hate him for it as I rub the mark absentmindedly and try to not think about him. I figured I had at least a few good days in me before my brain fucked everything up for me.
Apparently not.
I tell the voice inside my head to stop thinking about the mad king. It doesn't matter if I enjoyed him coming all over me or not. It's not like there's a time requirement for Stockholm Syndrome. Well, not one that I know about at least, and that's definitely what I have. I'm already losing it, reliant on him, and at his mercy. It would be crazy to not develop an attachment to him.
Or at least that's what I tell myself.
Locked in the basement and curled in a corner on the bed, I hope and pray for him to come back. It was bad enough I got pulled from class this morning to meet with the psychiatrist, the one who's new here and has the personality of a rock.
"Tell me about your parents, Avery," he had said like he didn't already know the root cause of my problems.
All of these places correctly guess at one point or another, but then they keep that knowledge to themselves. In the end, right before my father pulls the plug, some of them try to mention it in an effort to save themselves. But my father never wants to hear any of it, no matter how many times it's flung in his face.
He loves his wife.
His wife is perfect.
I'm the problem.
End. Of. Story.
It's almost like if he recognizes that she's the problem, he might have to admit his own fault in choosing her.
After I met with Dr. Boring Rock, I had to attend group therapy, which was even worse than talking to the psychiatrist one-on-one. It, too, was headed by the man with the personality of a stone, and all of the eating disorder students were there going through the motions of giving a shit. The doctor wanted me to talk about my parents in group therapy, but I refused. Well, I actually told him my mother was dead, and the dumbass believed me.
Now I'm here, and I'm feeling like I got tag-teamed by bullshit this morning. The boring doctor was bad enough, but then the creep kidnapped me and took me down to the basement for his special surprise.
Also, worst surprise ever, for the record.
I hate this place, and I don't care if I have to shout it to get it into my skull, but I hate him too. I don't care about his reasons. I don't want to hear any more about them. He could have the intentions of an angel, but they can't make up for what he's doing to me.
He locked me in here like an animal, the bastard.
Fuck him!
At some point, I fall asleep on the bed, still wrapped in the blanket, my head cradled on a small but clean pillow he must have brought down here, especially for his torture chamber. I don't dream or at least I don't think I do. I fall into the black of nothingness.
I wake to the sound of clanging and the cell door scraping against the stone floor. I peek over to watch him lock the cell door behind him. Everything hits me one after the other.
Relief first that calms my shaking bones.
Happiness, second, that washes over me.
Anger last, incinerating all the good feelings away.
He left me here, but I know he has a key. I've seen it twice now, and if I can just overpower him, I have a chance of locking him in this shitty place and getting out of here myself. I screw my eyes shut again, sliding the blanket a little farther up my cold arms, and a moment later, I feel the bed dip beneath his weight.
He sits in front of me, his body so close to mine that his thigh grazes my forearm. Every hair on me stands up all at once.
