Page 67 of Unmasking Mayhem
twenty-one
california
Whitney
Not Afraid: Eminem
Panic.
It's all I've been able to do since I ended up here, and there, and all the other places I've been in such a short amount oftime. But in my reality, it's been fucking hours. The uncertainty of what might come next sends waves of panic coursing through me as if it were the most natural thing in the world.
Fear.
It completely constricts my throat, making it extremely hard to breathe, and all of the breathing exercises I was taught in therapy and in any treatment I've been through over the years just don't fucking work. They just make my heart race even more, and the panic becomes even worse. He's so angry, and the looks he gives me turn my blood to ice—he's so cold.
Memories.
They've continued to come at a random time, more often than usual too. And they're not even just the bad ones with him—no, there are good memories too. It's pure psychological torture, and I'm well accustomed to his ways—this being one of them. He's trying to regain control over me since he hasn't been able to in over a year. And my independence is fucking killing him.
Good.
Dustin Alexander Wilson shattered my life, and I'm determined to ruin every fucking fragment of his in return. Hetried to break me, but all he succeeded in doing was making me stronger. So why, at this moment, do I feel so utterly weak?
Shackles bind my ankles, preventing me from trying to escape, but my hands are free—odd. The musty smell reminds me of the way our apartment basement used to smell—the one back in California that holds more bad than good memories. With a blindfold over my eyes, I'm at a huge disadvantage, but I try to peek every now and then when I'm sure nobody is watching me.
All I can think about are the guys: Carter, who I was forced to kill, while all of Masked Mayhem watched. Hawk, who had been struggling with his mental health pretty badly. Raze, who I'd been getting close to recently—close like we were when we were younger. And Red, how I betrayed him by killing his partner, and how he's holding up after the incident.
My heart breaks for each one for different reasons, but the one thing they all have in common is the love we have for one another. It's a different kind of love. It makes me feel warm and fuzzy at times, but devilish and dangerous other times. It’s our bond formed out of the trauma we've been through together, but it's the strongest bond anyone could have. We can relate to one another about the way we're feeling, and I'd always wanted that in my life. With them, I have it.
But do I still have it? Am I going to be Dustin's prisoner forever, or will I escape? Will someone come save me? Does anyone know where I am?
Again my hope begins to dwindle, and the cycle of panic, fear, and the brutal memories hit me in a row over and over, a never-ending anxiety attack from fucking hell. Am I losing my mind? The question echoes in the void of my thoughts, mingling with the clammy dread that has settled into my bones. I take a deep breath, or at least I try, but the air feels thick, as if I'm inhaling despair itself. Every minute drags on, each second a taunt, reminding me that time is a luxury I can no longer afford.
Every sound around me is magnified: the scuffle of footsteps, the distant hum of machinery—unfamiliar and ominous, making my skin prickle. The air shifts; I hear the creak of a door, and suddenly, I'm aware of him. Dustin. I can sense him even before he speaks, that familiar mix of anger and arrogance enveloping the room like a suffocating fog.
"Look at you," he sneers, and I feel his presence close, invasive, as he leans into my space. "Still playing the victim, I see.”
I clench my fists, nails biting into my palms. Rage is a flickering candle in the midst of the storm threatening to drown me. "I’m not a victim," I manage to croak out, my voice cracking, defiance mingling with the fear that wraps around me like a snake.
He laughs—a sound so dark and void of warmth that it chills me to my core. “You’ve always been a fighter, haven’t you? But fighters need to know when they’re beat. I thought I fucking taught you that.”
His words slice through the remnants of my strength, but I won't let him see how much they affect me. I know the power of perception; I can't show weakness. Not now, not ever. Behind the blindfold, I squeeze my eyes shut, envisioning the faces of the guys—Carter smiling though the scars of war are still etched on his face, Hawk laughing despite his pain, Raze’s easy grin, and Red’s protective scowl. They are my fortress.
“You did this to yourself,” he continues, his voice dripping with satisfaction.
I can feel tears prickling at the corners of my eyes, and for a moment, I’m lost in the recollection of their last moments, each of them realizing that I wasn’t coming. They all thought I’d saved them, but instead, I condemned them to darkness. Dragged them down with me just by being alive. Fear shifts to desperation, an adrenaline-fueled rush igniting my spirit. Irefuse to let Dustin keep this hold over me any longer. I refuse to remain chained to a memory that haunts me.
“What are you smiling at?” He barks, ripping off the blindfold and cutting off my thoughts as he takes a step closer, my panic flaring at the sound of metal ringing against metal. The shackles at my ankles rattle like a warning bell; he can’t see what’s happening in my mind—the escape plan forming like a lifeline. Dustin’s face shifts from malice to sheer disbelief. “You think they can save you?!”
“I don't think,” I retort, my voice suddenly strong as I straighten my back, the quaintness of my surroundings fueling a resolute fire within. “I know they can.”
"I hate to break it to you, Whitney, but nobody is fucking coming to save you. Nobody knows where you are, and before long, you'll be just another fucking stripper missing from the streets of Boston—you're just another fucking statistic." He licks my cheek, making me cringe as I try to pull away from him, but he only tightens his hold.
In the slick, suffocating darkness of his presence, I feel the fight within me sap and surge like a tide. But he’s wrong; he doesn’t know about the lengths I would go to break free from the chains he’s clamped so tightly around my wrists, both literal and metaphorical. I did it once, I'll do it again, it doesn't matter the circumstances.
“You've always underestimated me,” I whisper, trying to conceal the tremor in my voice, though a new wave of determination surges through me. “You’ve done your worst, but I’m still here. Every time you touch me, it only fuels my fire.”
His face falters for a fraction of a second at my words, and for that moment, I see the flicker of something—worrisome?—in his eyes. I rally my courage, willing it to break through the fear that swells against my chest.
