Page 68 of Delivered to the Devil

I’m scared every time Janos leaves the apartment. Scared he won’t come back. Scared he’ll decide it’s time to end things for good.

My anxiety hits the roof one night when he keeps casting me worried looks. All my alarm bells go off, and when he grabs my chin after dinner and levels me with an almost fretful expression, I know something is terribly wrong. His free hand comes up to brush my cheek while the other tightens to the point of pain. Like every other day, he doesn’t say a word.

I want to grab him and beg him to stay, fall to my knees and cling to his leg like the helpless animal I am. But I remain frozen in place, my chest clenching the air from my lungs as he gets up and walks away.

Despite everything I’ve been through, I’ve never felt as helpless as I do at this very moment. I just sit there, staring after him as his long strides take him away from me and he disappears out of the room and out of the apartment.

I’m certain this is the last time I’ll see him. The next time two suit-clad men come at night, Janos won’t be one of them. A new cold and mechanical man will grab me, take off my clothes, and hold me down while I’m raped.

It’ll be like having to go through the first awful nights all over again, only worse, because there won’t be the slightest trace of comfort to be found. And Janos won’t be there.

Pain claws at my insides like it’s trying to rip me apart. I can’t take it. I have to do something. Anything. Take back control.

Suddenly, I find myself in the kitchen, staring at the sharp knives in the top drawer. There’s only one way left to take control, and I desperately want to grab it. I can’t allow them to drag me through the horrible violation of another man abusing me again. There’ll be nothing left of me.

With a trembling hand, I pick up the largest knife and run my fingers over the edge. It’s as sharp as broken glass. It could break my skin at the slightest pressure.

With the back of the knife, I push up my left sleeve and stare at the blue veins that are easily visible beneath the fair skin on my narrow wrist. Carefully, I position the sharp edge over those veins.

One slice is all it takes. I would bleed out within minutes. End it all and escape this living hell.

I apply a little pressure and feel the outer layers of skin break. There’s no blood, so I pull slightly. I inhale sharply as my skin stings and deep red drops emerge around the knife.

One slice.

I squeeze my eyes shut and try to will myself to do it. But I can’t manage more than a little more pressure. Not enough to reach the artery. When I open my eyes, only a single stripe of blood runs down my arm.

I throw the knife away, making it jump across the floor with a metallic clatter. Sinking down against the cabinets, I break into miserable tears and bury my head in my hands. I hate myself for being this weak. All it takes is a single tug of my hand; the knife would do the rest—or lean a little farther out over the railing on the bridge, lose my balance, and then the water would take care of the rest. But I can’t even bring myself to do these simple things. I’m too weak to seize the last sliver of control within my grasp.

Instead, I leave myself at the mercy of strangers, who will slowly and painfully destroy me.

CHAPTER 33

“L’Enfant Sauvage”

by Gojira

Rebecca

I startle awake at the sound of a door. With heavy eyes, I squint against the light and realize that I’m curled up on the kitchen floor. Exhaustion must have knocked me out. But even though I’ve clearly slept, I don’t feel any better.

With some effort, I push up and lean against the kitchen cabinets. I glance at the knife a few feet away. It would be so easy to reach for it and stab the first person who comes in here. Who knows, maybe the new guy is as slow as the lanky one, and with a bit of luck, I could hit him right in the stomach. After all, I have the element of surprise on my side.

But I can’t bring myself to do it. I just sit here, curled up and staring at the shiny steel while tears fill my already swollen eyes.

Footsteps approach. The carpet in the living room muffles the hard soles, and when they click over hardwood again, I look up and see a suit-clad man stop in the door opening, towering above me. I can’t make out more than the shape through the veil of tears, and I’m not sure I care to. Still, I wipe my eyes several times until my vision clears up.

When I look up again, my heart stops.

The man above me is neither thin nor lanky, weak nor slow. He’s strong and powerful. Tall and majestic. A warrior that can’t be conquered. No matter how much luck is on my side, I’d never be able to stab a knife into him—I wouldn’t even manage a nick before he had wrestled the weapon out of my hands and caught me in devastatingly strong arms.

I stare into steel-gray eyes, and even though I know why he’s here, I feel no fear or anger. Only relief.

Horror unfolds over Janos’s features as his eyes shoot back and forth between the knife and me, then down at the streak of dried blood on my arm. We’re frozen in a shared moment of fear—fear that bounces back and forth, rubs off, and multiplies on itself.

But then he shuts down. His gaze turns distant and cold—even more than usual. Something’s wrong. He’s not looking at me directly like he usually does, and his expression is professional and detached. I’m just a job again. Something that needs to be taken care of. At least, that’s how it looks, and I have to remind myself there’s more behind his cold façade.

With a tight grip on my arm, he hauls me from the floor and proceeds to strip my clothes off. There’s none of his usual gentle patience. No care or contact. But he’s not as mechanical as he was on that first night either. It’s somewhere in between, like he’s trying to be indifferent but not quite succeeding.

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