Page 19 of Torment

When he said that, I immediately thought of the pictures he showed me earlier that day, and I spent the next hour heaving over the toilet, vomiting up every morsel of food. I was sure that was exactly what the Devil intended: to fill me with such horror that I became physically ill.

He was a sadistic psychopath.

I watched him step over to the barred door and close it with his code, leaving me trapped in my own section of the room. I swallowed hard, trying not to cry again as I remembered my futile attempt at escape.

A few days after my arrival here, I’d tried to be smart and memorize the beeping pattern on the keypad when he put the code in. Like a fucked-up version of that old electronic Simon memory game for kids. I silently sang it to myself over and over until there was no way I’d ever forget the pattern.

While the Devil was gone, I spent hours standing on the far left side of the barred partition, straining to reach the keypad on the other side so that I could test out the buttons. Finally, I figured out which ones made which noises, and I was able to put the code in. 558416.

The bars didn’t immediately slide open as I hoped they would. The keypad simply made an irritating buzzing sound at me, and nothing else happened. I tried again and again, knowing for sure that I was using the right set of numbers. Still, nothing happened. That was when I realized the Devil must change the code every time he left. He probably had it set up to do so on some sort of automated system. So even if I memorized every single code he ever used when he came in and out of here, I’d never get out.

I should’ve known better. I should’ve stopped clinging to my hopes of escape the second this man stuffed me in the trunk of his car. Hope was always a cruel mistress. It made you hang on to dreams, fighting tooth and nail, daring to believe you could win, only to betray you every single time.

The Devil stood behind the bars, watching me cower on my thin mattress. I could see that he’d brought me another meal on a tray and left it on my side of the partition. This one wasn’t served in a dog bowl either. Apparently, today was special for some reason.

Or it could be another way to torture me. Perhaps he was lulling me into a false sense of security, and the food was actually filled with razor blades and broken glass.

I drew in a shaky breath and crawled off the mattress. The Devil would probably get angry—or angrier, I should say—at me if I tried to walk or show any sign of strength whatsoever. He’d made that clear the other day when I walked over to my food. He’d come into the cell and pushed me to the ground before kicking me in the stomach until I no longer wanted to eat.

I leaned over the tray and drank the water before starting on the bowl of oatmeal.

“It’s a shame I have to bother keeping you fed,” the Devil muttered. I couldn’t see his face behind the black mask, but I could still somehow tell he was glaring at me malevolently.

“Why do it then?” I murmured between bites of food. He could just let me starve if he hated feeding me so much.

He didn’t respond. I finished the meal and pushed the tray through the bottom of the partition. Then I sat back on the cold floor, waiting for my captor to leave.

This time, he didn’t. My heart began to thud. That meant he was probably here to hurt me again, not just feed me. I bit my lip, wondering how he would do it today. Wondering what fresh hell he’d cooked up in his sick imagination.

I looked over at my reflection in the mirror. I saw a shivering young woman, pale skin a bright contrast with the gloom surrounding her. A bruised and battered body, matted hair that was once silky, peeling lips that were once soft and pink.

Bit by bit, this man was destroying me.

He crouched down to my level. In the dim light, I could see his eyes gleaming maliciously behind their dark mesh covering. “Still such a pretty girl,” he said softly. “It’s a real shame.”

“Please tell me why I’m here,” I said. I’d probably asked him why I was here a thousand times since I’d been taken, but I couldn’t resist doing it again. I was desperate. “Are you from the Path of the Covenant?”

That was the fifth time I’d asked him that particular question. Each time he’d snorted and said ‘I’m not going to fall for your games’ or some variant of that, but this time he answered differently.

“You’ll find out who I am soon.”

“Just tell me now!” I said.

He reached through the bars with one arm and coiled a hand around my neck, squeezing me hard. “Don’t tell me what to do, you little bitch.”

He wrenched the hand away and stood up again. I fell backwards, gasping as I struggled to regain my breath.

One hand went behind the Devil’s head to scratch an itch. For a second, the mask slipped, and I saw the left side of his face. It looked scarred and different from what I remembered, but I still knew exactly who it was in an instant. This was no Path of the Covenant member.

It was the man I once loved.

The man I once thought I’d marry.

Mason Ashwood.

Eyes wide and heart pounding, I stared up at him. “You,” I whispered. “Oh my god… it’s you.”

Horrible images filled my head at the realization of his presence, my mind instantly flashing back to New Eden for the thousandth time since my captivity here. I thought of blood. Knives. Scars. Venomous snakes. Most of all, I thought of fire. I pictured the raging, destructive flames which I’d been taught were supposed to cleanse the wicked, freeing them from their sins. I even smelled the smoke and the acrid scent of burning flesh for a second.

---