Page 24 of Dangerous Beginnings

I press my finger against the scanner, feeling the cool surface as the door clicks shut and locks with a soft metallic hum. The sound reverberates in the small space, but it does nothing to ease the weight pressing down on my chest. It’s like I’m sealing something in—trapping it. Or maybe it’s me who’s trapped.

I yank my hand back as the lock engages, my finger throbbing from the pressure. But the pain is nothing, just a dull throb compared to the chaos tearing through my mind. I take the stairs two at a time, my footsteps heavy, and each one feels like it’s dragging me down further. My hands tangle in my hair, pulling at the strands, but it does nothing to clear the fog of frustration building inside me.

I feel like shit. I need to shower—to rinse away the blood that’s starting to feel like it’s seeping deeper into my skin, becoming a part of me. I can still smell it, metallic and sharp, clinging to my clothes, to my hands. But even more than that, I need the heat to burn through the thoughts gnawing at me.

The water is scalding when it hits me, but it doesn’t feel like enough. The heat pours over my skin, but instead of relief, it makes everything worse, intensifying the weight in my chest. The blood swirls down the drain, a brief satisfaction, but it doesn’t last. All I can see is her—the image of her bare, filthy feet burned into my mind. It’s such a small thing, but it twists at me and digs in deep.

And her skin... her skin was so cold. I can still feel it—thoseicy hands that felt like they didn’t belong to someone alive. She’s crawling under my skin without even trying, without saying a word. And I’m letting it happen. I’m letting her get inside me, letting her take up space in my head, and it’s driving me insane.

He knows. I know he knows there’s a woman here. And it shouldn’t bother me this much, but it fucking does. It’s not just that he’s seen me with someone for the first time, it’s the danger that follows. He could harm her. Hurt her in ways that tear through her in ways I can’t predict. That thought twists something in me, something dark and possessive. No one touches her. No one breaks her but me.

She’s mine to break.

Isabella

I take a sip out of the water bottle he left. As I wipe my nose, I can feel another migraine attack making its way up to my head. I’m exhausted, lonely and scared. There was so much blood. I let myself fall to the floor, hugging my knees as I lay on the floor. My eyes feel heavy and as he closes the door behind him again, I get a feeling that this would be my coffin. As heavy thoughts take over my mind again, I drift off into a deep weary sleep.

My eyes snap open, and a wave of dread washes over me as I recognize the familiar surroundings of my old home. The room feels suffocating, darkened by the weight of fear that hangs in the air. I’m back in my bed, cowering under the covers as the shouts of my mom and stepdad ricochet off the walls, accompanied by the unsettling sound of objects crashing to the floor. My body trembles instinctively, knowing what’s coming.

The creaking staircase echoes in my ears, and with each step, my heart races faster, a drumbeat of panic. Tears spill down my cheeks, mingling with the sweat on my forehead, my breaths quickening as the noise crescendos. When the bedroom door bursts open with a violent bang, I flinch. My mother’svoice screams from downstairs, the sheer terror in her tone slicing through me like a knife.

And then he’s there, looming over me, a shadow that blocks out the light. The stench of alcohol is overwhelming, sharp, and bitter, invading my senses. He tears the covers away, and I am laid bare before the monster. I brace myself, knowing all too well what comes next—whipping, hitting, relentless abuse, day after day. I can feel every bruise, every mark that covers my body, a testament to his cruelty, each one a reminder of my helplessness.

As his fists rain down on me, blood begins to seep from the worst wounds, pooling on the floor like a dark, viscous reminder of my suffering. The pain blurs my vision, but I can still see the hatred in his eyes, the pleasure he derives from my torment. He yanks my hair, dragging me closer, and the spit flies from his lips as he snarls insults, each word a dagger in my heart.

Just when I think he might tire, when I dare to hope for a moment of reprieve, he throws me to the ground. The impact steals my breath, and before I can even process the pain, he starts kicking me in the stomach—again and again, like a merciless rhythm that thrums through the air. Each blow feels like a piece of my spirit being shattered, the darkness creeping in, suffocating any flicker of hope I might have clung to.

In that moment, I realize I am trapped in a nightmare from which there is no escape, and I wonder if anyone will ever hear my silent screams.

I am torn out of my dream as I am met with the face of the Devil himself again. Panic rises in me from the night terror I had before, making me go crazy. I back away from him as far as possible and the only thing I see is the black belt that he is wearing. My eyes travel over to the gun tucked into the holster.Cold sweat has started to form on my back. A sob escapes my mouth as he comes closer; it’s just like my dream. The closer he moves the louder my screams become. My screaming turns into complete panic. I don’t see anything; I just see black. I don’t see a face, I don’t see anything, I just feel panic.

I feel like a child again, an abused child. I just want a day where it feels like I am not falling apart anymore.

Diable

I stand there, watching her unravel. The night terrors she experiences are becoming more frequent, and more intense. I had hoped to observe her from a distance, but her pleas and panicked cries broke through my resolve. My knuckles are white as I grip the door frame, resisting the urge to turn away.

I take a deep breath, trying to maintain my composure. The calm I force upon myself starkly contrasts the chaos unfolding before me. My face remains impassive, though a flicker of something—perhaps frustration—crosses my eyes. I step into the room slowly, and deliberately, each movement measured.

“Isabella,” I say, my voice cold and unfeeling. “You need to calm down.”

She looks at me with eyes wide in terror, her body wracked with sobs. My presence alone seems to exacerbate her fear. I wait for her to register my command, watching as she continues to writhe in distress. My patience is tested as the minutes tick by, each second stretched thin by her growing hysteria.

“Listen to me,” I say, more forcefully this time. “You’re not helping yourself by behaving like this. You need to pull yourself together.”

The silence that follows is suffocating. Her cries subside to heavy breathing, but her eyes are still wild with fear. I can see her struggling to control herself and to make sense of her surroundings. Finally, with a sharp inhale, I step closer.

“You’re exhausting yourself,” I continue, my tone unwavering. “And it’s not doing you any favors. Your fear, your panic—they’re not going to change anything.” She shivers and shakes. “Look at me,” I command, stepping closer, my gaze locked onto hers. She pouts as tears run down her face.

“You think pouting is going to change anything?” I ask, my voice dripping with disdain. “You think that by showing me your misery, you’re going to somehow win favor or escape this situation? It only makes you look weaker.”

Her defiant pouting fades, replaced by a deep, aching sadness. Her tears continue to flow, but now they fall with a slow, resigned rhythm, no longer fueled by panic but by a profound sense of despair. The once-violent tremors of her body lessen, replaced by a more subdued, almost defeated demeanor.

She hides her face in between her knees, her chipped nails clawing in her skin. She is so tiny - so helpless.

I watch her, my gaze steady, but there’s a flicker—a brief, almost imperceptible shift in my expression. For a moment, something tugs at the edges of my resolve. The sight of her breaking down, her shoulders slumped, her face etched with a sorrow that’s hard to ignore, stirs a feeling I hadn’t expected.

“Isabella,” I say, my voice softer now, struggling to hold onto the authority I’m used to. The usual bite is absent, replaced by a hesitant gentleness. “Please, calm down.”

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