Page 40 of Tainted Serenity

It isn’t until long that I feel my head smashing against the marble floor of my room; the world dizzying around me as something presses into my neck. A cold liquid fills me, dragging me down to the abyss of darkness and nightmares.

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“COME TO MOMMY, SWEETNaya. I have a surprise for you.”

Her voice snakes around me like a whisper, tantalizing me in all its gory-like demeanor as I fight for breath. She stares at me, blood dripping down her mouth.

“Come here,” she hisses, and as I step closer, trepidation fills my every nerve.

My father’s body is there, full of vicious carvings that look like someone tried to peel his skin off, only leaving the wounded, bloodied flesh. My breathing hitch as I stare at my mother, panic clawing at my throat like sharp teeth that make it impossible to speak.

Beside my mother stands the man I fear the most.

The mastermind of torture.

Frederick Grimhill, and he smiles at me; a wicked one that promises persecution in eternal hell. He holds something in his wrinkled and scarred hand; it appears to be something metallic. As he walks closer, his steps reverberating through the walls with loud clanks, shivers race down my spine as if in an endless marathon where only horror remains. The needle he holds is bigger than any I have ever seen before, and before I know it, he presses it against my neck in swift movements. The pain is brutal, leaving me screaming and out of breath.

“Join us in death, sweet girl.”

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PAIN IS NORMALLY FLEETING,but this one is not. This one lasts long after I wake up with a start, sweat coating my forehead.

The first thing I noticed when I woke up a few minutes ago was the cold space; no longer was I inside the pink walls of the room they call mine. Nor were Irene or Arthur with me, attacking me from both sides as they cornered me, leaving me no other choice than to submit to the darkness that quickly swept over me. The walls in this room are as bare as I know the hallway outside to be, and the stone floors are not something you would normally find in a doctor’s examination room. But I know this isn’t a real examination room. The furniture and odd things in here remind me of something taken out of an asylum for the insane during the twentieth century.

I’m shackled to a hardened doctor’s chair with no remorse, much like the first time I met Daxton. The scent of leather fills my nostrils, giving me an odd sense of nausea as I try not to remember Dankworth Institute. That scent mixes with something else I cannot decipher, but it feels like burned wood.

I gave up on trying to get out of here five minutes ago. Now, the ticking clock in the corner alerts me of the passage of time in my solitude.

There’s an intense ache in my neck on one side, and I have a feeling it’s not only because of the liquid Arthur pushed into it. The dream comes crashing back, and I suppress a shudder. Frederick held a needle in his hand, the same side where I’m currently in pain.

The door suddenly opens, the creaking sound filling the relative silence, drowning out the sound of the annoying ticking of the clock. A man enters, draped in a white coat with regular jeans and a black t-shirt on his upper body. I spot the muscles underneath his shirt, pulling taut against the fabric as the male breathes out.

He closes the door quickly, stepping inside the room and letting the light become a more dull one instead of the all-too-bright I woke up to.

“Sorry for that. Arthur made sure to secure you himself before he took me elsewhere.”

I stare into the wild eyes of Daxton, swarming with regret as they zone in on my body all chained up. I swear I see a smirk pull at the corner of his lips, as if he’s enjoying the show of me unable to move.

That fucking sick bastard.

I watch him intently as he walks toward his desk, pulling off his coat before he turns to me, glancing me up and down as if inspecting me.

“You’re hurt again.”

It’s not a question; instead, it’s a mere statement, and his words linger with an emotion I wouldn’t expect from his cold façade.

“Do you care?”

He lets out an audible sigh, obviously tired of my attitude toward him, but what did he expect?

“Yes. It’s my job.”

“It’s not your real job though, is it?”

This time, I watch as his eyes narrow down on me and fury swirls in his irises before he drags a hand through his dirty blond hair in frustration. He takes control of his body, holding on to the desk behind him with knuckles that are whitening from the sheer force of his grip.

I study him closely in an attempt to figure him out. I am not even sure if I can trust him yet.

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