Page 68 of Make Me Scream

“Is that what this is? You used me for your art?”

Lane’s face sinks.

“No, not at all. There was no audience, I didn’t record this. I wanted you to experience-”

“You told me this was about inspiration and… introspection. This wasn’t supposed to be some kind of game!”

“Inspiration comes from our experiences,” he says, crossing his arms before his chest. “When you want to evoke an emotional response from your audience, you will be able to go to this memory. You will always have this-”

“I already have fucked up memories, Lane!” I scream, getting up and heading for the stairs. My clothes better be where the hell I left them.

“Come back, Gwen. We have more to talk about. We’re going to fully process this session, then-”

“Process it yourself!”

“Stop! You’re still wearing-”

I don’t listen. Fuck him. That was seriously fucked, and going over every second of it with a microscope is not going to fucking happen.

Furious beyond comprehension, I find my clothes, dress and leave.

Chapter 15

The cell block feels empty without her. Anne spoke to me, she kept my mind active. She planned our escape, she talked me through it. She convinced me to hold on.

She reminded me I was still a person.

Now I’m not so sure. Maybe I died that night too. I’m just the ghost left behind, haunting our secret prison until someone new arrives. Anne’s been gone for weeks now, but to me it’s been years. Second lasted hours while she was here; now they take days.

I’ve had nothing to do but be alone in my head, questioning my mistakes.

I never should have let him get close to me. Did he even care about my art? Did he really think I had talent? Or was that just an excuse to get me to listen, to make me compliant with his wishes?

Of course, I’ve walked down these trails a thousand times. Anne used to tell me I couldn’t blame myself. I wasn’t his first, and I’m not going to be his last. This is what he does: finds a student in a vulnerable place, takes advantage of her need for guidance and then claims her once she’s fallen into his web. He’s good at it; he’s had practice. If it hadn’t been me, it would have been someone else.

My ankle still twinges with pain if I step on it wrong, but it’s mostly healed. Sometimes I wish the injury was permanent: I deserve the agony. Anne might be alive if I hadn’t been so careless. We might be free, and Master would be the one alone in a cell.

I know the real reason, though. Having a bum ankle would absolve me of my responsibility to try to escape again. If I could barely walk, I’d have a good excuse to just accept fate. I wouldn’t have to go back to the world I was stolen from. I never really belonged there, and it never wanted me either. It probably doesn’t even know I’m gone. Master was the only one who ever showed any real interest in me, and that turned out to be a lie — a lure to lead me into his snare.

If I ever did get back, where would I go? What kind of life would I have? I’d have to tell them about Anne — about how I failed her, after everything she tried to do for me. Some people would pity me, but some would hate me. Most wouldn’t care. I’d be a headline on the news for a while, and then the world would keep turning.

In some ways, it’ll be better if I never go back. Maybe some heroic version of me could serve as a distraction while the new Toy escapes. I could live with that, even if I didn’t make it. As long as Master died with me — preferably in serious pain.

But no, my ankle’s getting better. I’m going to have to honor the promise I made Anne, and find a way out of here.

How, though?

Anne was the brains last time. She was everything, in fact: all I did was try to follow her plan. All of my ideas revolve around just hoping to catch Master off-guard. Thinking long-term has never been my strong suit.

He’s too careful, though. Especially since Anne. He’ll be wary for a long, long time. He was extra-vigilant when I first arrived, intent on escape and lashing out at every opportunity. The new Toy will be no different. Master likes them defiant but breakable — it would be too easy if we didn’t fight back a little.

How close is he to finding me a cellmate? Master hasn’t spent any real time here since he killed Anne, but he visits to make sure I haven’t hurt or starved myself. From somewhere upstairs, he pours cereal, nuts and fresh vegetables into their respective troughs, and the dispensers open every day, without fail. I haven’t missed a meal. Not that I ever want to eat — it’s hard to have an appetite in this place — but I’ll need my strength.

Has Master watched the footage from the security camera? Does he watch me sleep? I’m just lying here, waiting. When my ankle no longer barks at all, maybe I’ll try jogging in place. Jumping jacks. Push-ups. Build some muscle and endurance so that next time I can climb a fence with ease. Would Master forbid it? Would he realize I was training for my next escape attempt? It might get me in trouble.

No, I need Master to think I’ve learned my lesson. He’ll see me as a broken, defenseless, obedient, scared little pet, desperate to serve its master. I won’t try to hurt him directly — no matter how well I act, he’ll never be lax in his preparation or attention.

I sensed it when he came to take what he wanted from us. Like a finger on the trigger, there was always a tension in him, a tension of constant anticipation. How did he find any of this pleasurable, if he couldn’t relax and truly enjoy himself? Perhaps that’s part of the thrill — knowing that he has to keep his wits about him. We’re wild animals in captivity. He can feed us and clean us, but we’ll never be fully tamed.

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