Page 22 of The Freedom in Captivity

“That’s great, honey.” Mom comes up behind me and wraps her arms around my waist in a welcoming hug. “I knew it’d get better.”

I hadn’t known at the time, that hug would be numbered. That only months after our conversation, she’d die.

“Walk faster,” Flynn commands.

His voice seems faraway. Or is it me who’s faraway? Like I’m not completely here anymore. It’s only been a day, so I shouldn’t be losing myself already. This doesn’t make sense.

Or has it been more than a day?

No. Earlier when he fed me, he said he’d return to let me use the bathroom. Therefore, we’re still within the same time bubble.

“Speed up,” he demands.

I can’t, I want to tell him. I’m weak. My leg is throbbing from the wound. My energy feels depleted. The setting sun pouring through window panes blinds me more than it should, my eyes so unused to the daylight rather than the darkness.

My body is betraying me.

I’ll tell you,I want to call out. My mouth forms the words but can’t push them from my lips. To end this now, I’ll tell the Corsettis everything. When they descend on him, Dad will know I’m a traitor. He’ll know I fucked up, and when he fights back and wins, I’ll be the one who ultimately dies, making all my effort for nothing.

Anything to end this.

Flynn was correct. Mental torture is worse than physical. I’ll take any stab wound over this. It’s making no sense for me to be this weak already.

“Flynn—” This is it. Where I’ll tell him.

“Shut it.”

We reach his bedroom at the same time and he lets the chain go, silently commanding me forward. I stare at the bed as I pass it. It takes every nerve to stride into the bathroom after being taunted by the indent left from his body.

And then to leave it when I’ve finished, when the shower mocks me with the idea of being clean, when splashing water on my face from the sink does little to remove the too prominent sweat and dirt.

I don’t have the energy to fight him as I return to the main part of his room. I don’t even look at him, to see if he’s curious why I’m obeying so readily as he marches me out of his bedroom and immediately back to the basement.

I don’t realize the temperature difference until I’m seated on the dirty, blood-stained, stone ground, still only wearing cut, ripped jeans and my bra. My shirt is lost somewhere in the darkness, dead alongside the pillow and sleeping bag he mocks me with that remain out of reach.

He loops the chain around the post and then the rope around my wrists and leaves me to my darkness again.

So.

Much.

Darkness.

* * *

On and on it goes.

Another day, and then another…and another.

They’re blending together. Flynn’s visits seem almost like clockwork twice a day. Predictable to use that as passing time.

But nonetheless, I’m losing my grasp on time. My exhausted mind slipping further and further away.

If Dad could see me now, he’d disown me. This doesn’t feel any different than when he’d do the same thing to me, to “teach” me. He’d urge Yasmine out of the house, so she couldn’t question why I disappeared, and then he’d shove me into the basement, hooked to a chain, abandoned for days without food and water.

The first time was the worst. When I didn’t know what he was doing, and he didn’t fully explain.

Two soldiers tie my wrists and ankles to the chair, but I jerk and kick with every muscle I have to fight them. Even as they move away, baring the path for Dad to see me, I let him reallyseeme. To gaze at the fear, the tears pouring from my eyes, mingling with the confusion I feel.

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