Page 32 of Broken Hearts

13

Celeste

I leaned backon my bed and stared up at the ceiling, counting all the carved decorations along the white crown molding. I lost count somewhere around fifty, too tired to bother counting anymore, and I lay back and closed my eyes, trying to imagine nothing but blackness in the hopes it would put me back to sleep. I felt strangely disengaged from my situation, as if the events of my life were playing out on a screen in front of me and I was floating above watching it happen, right up there on the ceiling. I wondered with detached interest if I was finally losing my mind.

I’d been locked in my room for a week now, resigned to my fate. I still wanted out, but I no longer had any fight in me. It was pointless. I’d already tried and failed more than once.

Alex hadn’t put another electronic collar on me, but that didn’t matter, because there was no way out of this room even if I tried, which I wouldn’t. The windows were barred, and even if I somehow broke the glass and squeezed through the bars, I’d be caught like a rat in a trap as soon as Alex heard the alarms going off. He told me he’d had them installed at the same time as the exterior security cameras, which he claimed were there for my benefit, when really I knew they were there to ensure I remained a prisoner.

Alex had also installed a few cameras in my room now that I was locked in here. It was probably to make sure I didn’t try to hang myself with my bedsheets or something else along those lines. On top of that, he’d taken the last week off work so that he could be right here on the property to catch me if I tried anything, because if I did attempt to hurt myself in my room, it wouldn’t do any good to simply see me doing it on the camera feed but not arrive in time to stop me. No, he needed to be right here in the house, always observing me yet almost never associating with me.

He only spoke to me twice a day now—when he brought me breakfast, and again when he brought me dinner. It was the same every day, barely a word spoken. He’d tell me to wake up as he put the tray down on my bedside table, and then he’d ask me if I had any strange dreams while I slept, or if I’d remembered anything useful about the Circle.

I never had anything to report anymore. The memories had stopped coming back, clicked off in my mind as sharply as someone switching off a light. This was no relief to me, because I knew Alex wanted me to remember more so he could have more Circle members to go after. If I stopped being useful and never remembered anything else, my life expectancy would become substantially shorter.

Whenever I said no, I didn’t remember anything else, he would simply nod and step out of the room, leaving me alone again. Trapped and bored. The only time he’d let me out of the room in the last seven days was to go down to the shelter with him to watch him dispose of Justice Baldwin two days ago.

I watched calmly as he tortured and slowly killed him, and honestly, I didn’t react or care. It made my nerve pain feel slightly better for a while, just like it did when I saw Dan die, but besides that, I had no response to his gruesome death other than ‘okay, that happened’ and ‘wow, that’s a lot of blood’.

Aside from that, I spent my days alone in my room with nothing to do but read books and watch movies. I guess it could be worse, and it was certainly better than being down in the cell again. Besides, people could get used to anything, even solitary confinement. I’d proved that beyond a shadow of doubt during my time here. After a while, even unspeakable horrors can burrow into a little niche in your mind, and they become nothing more than something that happened.

That was what I thought of my captivity now—something that just happened to me.

I was starting to worry about the way Alex was treating me, though. He had completely withdrawn from me since my escape attempt, even though I’d been punished and made it clear that I’d resigned myself to being here until the day I died. He no longer touched me or had sex with me—literally the only contact we had was when he brought me food and asked if I’d remembered anything. That was it.

It might not sound bad to an outside observer, but to me, it was a sign of my impending doom, like a threatening whisper in my ear, a feeling that encapsulated me inside a cocoon of hopelessness. I was sure Alex was growing tired of me, growing tired of my lack of help and my constant swings from wanting to be here to wanting to escape, and he might get rid of me even sooner than I previously thought.

I’d tried to be good in the last week so that I didn’t speed up the process—I was always quietly deferential and polite when he brought me my food—but obviously it wasn’t enough. He was still cold and withdrawn, and so I knew my turn would arrive soon, as sure as the sun rose and set each day.

I guess I’d already established that I probably wasn’t going to make it out of here alive, but I thought I’d have a bit longer than just a few weeks. For all I knew, Alex had already staked out a replacement girl, and soon he might begin stalking her so that he could eventually dispose of me and have her take my place. I vaguely wondered what lies he’d tell her in order to scare her into submission. Would he somehow convince her the Circle was after her too?

I curled my hands into fists by my side. As much as I should feel sorry for whoever his next victim was, the most striking thing I felt was an irrational sense of burning jealousy. Whenever he came in here to drop off my food, it would go through me like an electric current, how badly I wanted him to lean down, kiss my forehead, and tell me he forgave me and would only ever keep me. Tell me he wouldn’t kill me. Or tell me anything at all, just so I could hear him speak to me again.

I’d officially lost it.

My door opened a moment later, and Alex entered with a plate of eggs and toast. Plastic cutlery so I couldn’t hurt him or myself. He crossed the room, put the plate on my bedside table, then sat on the bed, pointedly refusing to touch me. “Good morning. Did you dream about anything?” he asked.

I shook my head. “No, sir.”

“Remember anything new about the mansion, or anything else?”

I swallowed hard, hating that I had to disappoint him, and hating myself for hating it. That was a mouthful. No wonder I was losing it. “No, sir,” I whispered. “I’m sorry.”

Something crossed his face, a flash of emotion, but it was gone before I could pinpoint it. “What are you sorry for?” he asked.

My heart began to race. This was more than he’d said to me in days. “For disappointing you,” I murmured. “For not remembering anything else about the Circle. I know you want to track them down.”

“That isn’t your fault. We just need to give it more time. Memories are a tricky thing,” he said kindly. It didn’t change the fact that he probably wouldn’t want to keep me much longer now that I’d seemingly run out of use. “Anything else?”

“What do you mean, sir?” I asked.

“Is there anything else you’re sorry for? Now that you’ve had time to think.”

I looked down at my lap, playing with a loose thread on my blanket. I knew what he was getting at. He was angling for an apology from me in regard to my escape attempt last week. I couldn’t give that to him, though. As much as I’d resigned myself to staying here, and as much as that twisted part of my heart felt ashamed for trying to leave him, that didn’t mean I was actually sorry for trying to gain my freedom. I would never be sorry for wanting that. “No, sir,” I whispered, not meeting his eyes.

“I see.” He was silent for a moment, but he didn’t leave. “So you haven’t changed your mind.”

I shook my head. No point lying. “No, sir.” I sounded like a broken record. “I understand that I belong here because it’s what you want. But that’s all.”

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