Page 9 of Heartless Legacy

“They want us, together.”

Staring down at her, I say, “I don’t give a shit about congratulations. The only person happy about this arrangement is you. So go suck up all the praise and leave me the fuck out of it.”

“You’re supposed to cooperate. Or shall I tell your father?”

Tattle telling little twat. “Iamcooperating. Nothing he said when he forced me into this arrangement suggested I had to listen to people wish me well. I have to go through with it and can’t tell everyone that I’m being blackmailed. That’s what I’mdoing.” I finish my drink and order another one from a passing server.

“Don’t you think you should give drinking a rest? I don’t want a drunk for a husband.”

People are watching, so I lean forward and say, “And I don’t want a frigid shrew for a wife, but I guess we’ll both be disappointed for the duration of our union.” I peel her hand off of my arm. “Now go smile and be ecstatic for the both of us.”

She finally leaves me alone and the first thing I do with my freedom is make a beeline for the bar and order two fingers of bourbon. I’d ask for the bottle, but there are things expected of me now that I’ve moved to elevate myself above my Trium, and people here I still need to impress. Drunk and pissed off would be the wrong impression to leave them with.

The upside, it would piss my father off, and as much as I wouldn’t mind doing that, he might use any perceived infraction on my part as an excuse to take it out on Thea. My gaze drifts over the room, seeking out Finn and Holden again. They look just as unhappy as I do about being here. On the surface they’re perfectly poised, and appropriately sociable. But I notice the small details, like Finn smiling with too much teeth, and Holden’s plastered to the wall, not even pretending to engage with anyone.

I finish my drink, then order another. As I turn away from the bar, I spot Finn and Holden entering the house. When neither of them returns, I know it’s because they’ve left without me. I’ll need to get used to being left behind from now on.

With that sour thought bouncing around in my head, I gulp down my drink.

Chapter 3

Thea

How did I get here? That’s the question I’m asking myself as the little slot on the door slides open. How did I deviate so far from myself and my own rules for survival that I wound up here? The metal chain that holds me hostage scrapes across the floor as I scramble to my feet. I move too fast; the motion making me dizzy. I brace my hand against the wall to steady myself. It’s only been a day since my last visitor, but it looks like they’re ready for anothersession.

They’re all obsessed with seeing how long it takes for the pain to become too much for me to bear. Waiting on pins and needles for me to reach the point where I can no longer grit my teeth and fight back. They strike me over and over again. With fists, belts, whips, and rubber batons. Some have gotten creative and use socks stuffed with tennis balls or coins.

The stuffed socks hurt worst of all. Some clients hold me down, others want me fighting back. The sessions all have one purpose. For these sick fucks to take out their anger on someone with no repercussions and to practice their torture techniques. I think I prefer the guy missing his finger over everyone else I’ve encountered. He loves to play with water, and I lose consciousness faster during his sessions.

I squint at the orderly’s hand through my swollen eye. They weren’t given the same don’t touch me speech that Malcolm gave his workers, and I’m not being pumped full of drugs like I was in the other place, so my insomnia is back in full swing. This particular staff member showed up two weeks ago, after one of his coworkers stumbled out of here with a screw in his thigh. They took my bed away after that.

I lost the privilege of silverware after my first session, and as of three days ago, the protocol is to chain me to the wall. They’ve been warned not to get too close. The first guy who chained me up left here with a new tattoo around his neck.

The goon flicks a packet at me. It’s three sleeves of alcohol wipes. I’m supposed to clean up, because the monsters prefer a blank canvass. As if I’m not already mottled with bruises. On the days when I see my captor, he’s usually with visitors and gets a hard on telling me how much my time is worth. The more they pay, the more they can do. At least my bones are still intact. These sessions are to damage, not maim. Not yet. That privilege will go to whoever pays enough for me when the bidding is finally over.

I refuse to use the wipes. I don’t care about my wounds getting infected. Sepsis can’t be worse than what I’m already experiencing. Next, the orderly pushes a bundle of fabric through the door. It’s my transportation outfit. I slip my arms through the straight jacket and turn so he can buckle me in. The new guy doesn’t talk. He moves quickly, and doesn’t graze his fingers across my skin, or touch me the way the others do. That doesn’t mean he’s a good guy, though. He likes to watch. He watches the sessions, watches me eat, and I’ve caught him hovering over me when I’ve been barely conscious.

Once my arms are in, I turn so he can fasten the straps. When he’s done, he pushes me to move forward, then enters my cell to unhook me from my chain. Holding onto the back of thestraight jacket like a leash, he walks me to mytherapy room. They should just call it what it really is. A torture chamber.

My knees go weak when I see who’s here today. This guy is the worst one of them all. He’s an actual doctor, and he likes to play with shock therapy and hallucinogens. He’s fascinated with the mind, and his goal is to break mine.

Where most doctors would try to convince their patients that the world inside their head doesn’t exist, he wants the opposite. He wants to convince me the real world doesn’t exist. He wants me trapped in a delusion he’s created, so he can control my behaviors and outcomes. It’s like being in the matrix, without the machines. If you’re making a Manchurian candidate. This is how to do it. The lucid hallucinations scare me more than anything.

The last time I saw him, he tried to make me believe I was in a fight club in Nags Creek. That the bruises on my body were from me going up against multiple opponents, and that I refused to leave the ring because the purse was worth it.

Each fist hesuggestedconnected with my face, hurt. I imagined I felt my knuckles split. My jaw swelling, and I never doubted it was happening. My body reacted to the mental stimuli familiar with those aches and pains. But the atmosphere he conjured up was wrong. The smell was off, and there was never anything as luxurious as an official arena in Nags Creek. All my battles were in back alleys, abandoned parking lots, fighting pits in condemned buildings. A few on top of roofs. For two hours, he plied me with suggestions and his drug cocktail. He finally stopped his session when I started seizing.

I thought they banned him from participating. I guess he found a new dollar amount to make the man in charge happy.

“Hello my dear.” He takes in my appearance before addressing my escorts. “You didn’t clean her up?”

The orderly who never speaks doesn’t reply. His buddy says, “She refused to. Besides, why bother when someone’s just gonna bloody her up all over again?”

The doctor waves impatiently towards the straight jacket. “Unstrap her and get her into the chair.”

It takes three orderlies to get me strapped to the chair, after I head butt one of them. The doctor says, “I’ve been doing some research, my dear, and I realize where I went wrong the last time.” He waits as if he expects me to ask him to elaborate, huffing a sigh of annoyance when I don’t. “I was too busy suggesting things you’re familiar with. Things you’d easily endure. The desolation of the life you lived would break most people, but you’re numb to it all.”

He waves the folder he’s holding. “It took me some time to find this and smooth things over with Felix, but I think I finally have it.” He smiles and nods his head, agreeing with himself. “Yes, yes. I think I have it. Dark and desolate won’t do. You’re comfortable there, so there’s no motivation to escape your current environment. It’s just more of the same already in your head.”

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