Page 43 of Hysteria Rises
I shake my head, looking down as demurely as I can. There’s not a hint of the rebellion that I’ve been employing as my main survival tactic in my gaze. It hasn’t served me well enough.
Time for anewstrategy.
TWENTY-THREE
DELILAH
My gaze darts everywherethe moment Kiefer opens the door into the main part of this dingy basement I’ve been sequestered in. This is the first time I’ve had the opportunity to look at much of anything down here. True, I’ve been hauled through this area multiple times, but it was always while I was either drugged and delirious, unconscious, or mentally unable to focus.
Fear does terrible things to a person, and I’ve been living in a constant state ofwhat the fuck is happening. Even so, shock still barrels into me as I slow my visual exploration and realize how many people have been down here with me this entire time. The woman I encountered without the tongue is not the only one. We immediately come upon two who are head down, doing various tasks. The woman who wrote me that note then ate it is in the small kitchen area washing dishes. She’s wearing a shapeless gray gown, and herhair is pulled into a tight knot at the back of her head. Another similarly dressed woman sits at a long table with an overflowing basket of assorted garments. Items to be mended, maybe? She’s currently threading a needle, though there’s an old sewing machine set up at the table as well. A moment later, yet another woman enters the room with several small children. She has one on either side of her, holding onto her drab-colored skirt, and a third little boy trails in their wake.
Suddenly, all three women seem to spot us at once. They immediately stop what they’re doing and fall to their knees. With bowed heads, they—those who can, anyway—murmur in unison, “I follow. I honor. I nourish. I kneel.”
What in the hell?
Kiefer clears his throat, and they all stand again.
The ones who had been sewing and washing dishes immediately return to what they were doing, but the third finds Kiefer’s eyes. They linger on him for several seconds before flicking toward me. She promptly drags her gaze away as she ushers the children over to the table. They climb onto booster seats, chattering their toddler-speak. This must be either their dinner or a late afternoon snack. The woman slides small plates of fruit, cheese, and bread in front of them. These children might be anywhere between two and five. I have no idea.
Their heads bow, and they quickly mumble something that sounds a lot like, “For the nourishment ofour bodies,” only they stumble over the wordnourishment.
My brows furrow, deep in thought. They’ve obviously been taught to say that.
My stomach rumbles uncomfortably as they begin to shovel food into their little mouths. I don’t remember when I last ate anything. Chewing on my lip, I peek into the room they just exited. Several more slightly older boys remain hunched over a table, like they’re doing schoolwork of some sort. There’s certainly no school around here for them to attend, so this must be crazy town’s version of homeschooling.
I hadn’t realized that I’d come to a full stop while gawking until Kiefer nudges me forcefully forward. With a big hand collaring the back of my neck, he steers me over to the table. The woman near the sewing machine briefly glances up before returning her focus to the item of clothing in her hand. “Sixteen,” Kiefer says sharply. “You’ll be responsible for teaching Twenty-three how to be a productive member of our community. Is that understood?” She gives a curt nod, then immediately goes back to her task. “Eight,” he barks, and I jump in place like a skittish animal at the bite in his tone. “Make sure she’s in her room immediately after dinner. Hayze will be down to lock the door.” My brows crash together. Sounds like I’ll be locked in a room.Again. But did I really expect otherwise?
The woman at the sink—Eight—shifts slightly, only barely looking over her shoulder.
I draw in a breath, daring to meet Kiefer’s cold eyes for a split second when he turns toward me. He raises a brow, shooting me a mocking grin. “Do as they tell you, or there will be consequences.” He watches me for a second, then gestures to the chair beside Sixteen. When I don’t move, he growls, “Don’t wait for me to pull out your chair for you. That’s not happening. Sit down.”
I swallow, clenching my jaw tightly shut, but do as he says. Once I’m seated, he places a hand on the table, bending at the waist until his face is directly in mine. My attention centers on the scar on his cheek again. I exhale slowly, though the temptation to say something is rapidly clawing its way up my throat.
“Remember everything we discussed. I’d hate to have to punish you all over again.” A revolting, condescending smirk works its way onto his face.
Oh, I fucking remember, and the fact that he feels the need to remind me now almost makes me laugh. Thisasshole. He’d love to see me hurt, would love to use me to prove a point again. In fact, there’s no doubt in my mind that he’d make sure to be the one teaching me a lesson if there’s ever a next time—and he’d be nothing shy of brutal about it.
“I’m glad we understand each other, Twenty-three.”
My empty stomach turns unhappily. Being assigned a number is beyond degrading, but I need to mentally process the harsh truth I’ve been avoiding.
I’m no longer a person. To them, I’m nothing more than a number. I’m just Twenty-three.
The girl formerly known as Delilah fought so fucking hard to leave her shit life behind but it’s all been for nothing. She’s trapped here, never to be seen again. She’ll be lost until she can get the fuck out of this place.
Anxiety over the situation rises until I can hardly breathe for all the questions rushing at me. One after another, they pile up in my head until I’m ready to burst without a way to get the answers. Uncertainty makes my head dizzy and my chest tight.
If all these women have numbers, how do they decide who gets which? Is it random? Or am I simply the last in a series of twenty-three women? So far, I’ve encountered Eight, Sixteen, and one other. My eyes flick to her and zero in on her arm.
Sure e-fucking-nough, as she reaches over to coax one of the little boys to eat his food, the sleeve of her gown rides up and exposes the tattoo on the inside of her forearm to my view.
There’s no reading the number at this distance, but a sick feeling washes over me. If therehavebeen twenty-three of us,where are the rest?
I shudder involuntarily at the idea that I’m one of so many. Did the other women escape? If so, how? Because after what Kiefer did to me, playing with my emotions like I was his toy—I sincerely doubt that these men would ever willingly let one oftheirwomen go. Possessive, abusive fucks is what they are.
While I’ve been off in my head, Kiefer has shifted his attention toward the woman who is currently getting the three small boys situated.
Nervous energy surges through me as I cautiously watch the interplay among these people and make a promise to myself that I will learn as much as I can so that if I’m ever able, I will get myself the fuck outta here.
