Page 23 of The Freedom in Captivity

“Dad, what the hell is this? What are you doing?”

“Trust me, one day, you’ll thank me for this training.” He spins on his heels and heads up the stairs, disregarding the fact he’s left his own daughter tied to a chair.

“Dad!” I yell after his retreating back. “Dad, no! Dad…Dad…!” They all go unheard though, including my final plea: a name I haven’t called him in many years. A whispered appeal to the man who raised me before the two soldiers also leave, and all the lights shut off. “Daddy.”

Three days later, I was freed. My body weak, exhausted, starved, and dehydrated. I felt dirty. More so, I felt hatred. A deep-seated loathing, no praise would fix, even when my father tried to compliment my “strength.”

Every time after that got easier, because I stopped kidding myself. If the hits didn’t already show me the kind of man he is, that did.

So what’s so different about being held captive by the Corsettis that’s making this worse?

Flynn

The camera feed is up on my phone, which is propped against the wall parallel to my bed as I recline against the pillows. There are few surveillance cameras installed inside the mansion, but the two in the basement are for this very reason. Chained up or not, prisoners shouldn’t be alone without eyes on them.

Three days have passed in which I’ve had limited contact with Rozelyn. I feed her once a day, in the morning, and bring her up for a bathroom break in the evening. Every visit, I’m seeing more of her fight gone. Less attitude and more submission. When she’s docile, she doesn’t speak, but she also only stares at the ground as we walk and follows my commands without question.

When I bring her food, Dr. Shappo accompanies me to change out her bandage. Guess the wound isn’t as deep as it initially looked and it’s been healing well, considering the limited time that’s passed.

I barely speak to her as well, until yesterday when I started praising her for listening. Faking sympathy that I wish she’d answer the questions to save herself. I pretend to be on her side, that my feelings for her creep up even when my actions show otherwise. If she’s the girl I remember, a little kindness goes a long way.

Then I’ll break her.

Or she’ll break me.

I’m fucking agitated and just thinking about it has me shifting in bed. Every time I see her, every time she stops fighting, her submission feelswrong. Once, it used to be everything to me because the fight was half the battle. The half-assed, fake struggle she’d put on only for me to win.

But those were games. In the matter of life and death—ofhersurvival or downfall—I want more from her. It’s there, buried beneath days of isolation.

Conflicting emotions certainly. Rozelyn’s broken demeanour makes my job simpler, but I despise the sensation, the clench of my heart, every time it seems like she’s given up. It took me until this morning to realize exactly why her mood changes bother me so much.

If there’s one thing that certainly has remained the same all these years later, it’s her reaction to sorrow.

The first time she showed up to school seeming upset was when I realized how much the rich, mysterious girl who appeared in my life meant to me. When her lowered eyes and hunched shoulders shielded her from other people, I wouldn’t allow the same with me. I wanted to protect her.

It’s the identical lost gaze, hunched shoulders, and no drive that she has now. Witnessing her this week forces me into the past. To the moments I’d kiss away her distress and hope that, eventually, she’d trust me enough to open up to me.

Movement in the feed brings my attention back to the screen. She shifts, readjusting her legs to draw them up against her chest. Her head lowers into her knees and her stare at the ground doesn’t break.

I watch her stare at seemingly nothing until exhaustion starts to drag my eyelids down, and eventually, I lie down entirely, watching the phone screen until sleep takes me.

Since Rozelyn’s return to my life, sleep has become troubling. It’s when my eyes are shut that my mind opens and relives the cruellest memories.

She’s coming around the corner, heading for the girls’ changing room. Her footsteps get closer, and I brace for the lunge.

She enjoys the surprise. The roughness.

The moment I see a flash of the pink blouse I know her to be wearing, I move, shoving off the wall. In a blink, I have her in my arms, pushing us through the door to the girls’ changing room, my back first to take the brunt of the door.

When the door shuts behind us, I press her front to it and I flip the lock to ensure we won’t be interrupted.

“Flynn—”

“Shh.” Grabbing the straps of her backpack, I wrench it to the ground and then reach for the edge of her dress. I fucking love the dresses she always wears. Makes her seem like she cares about this shithole of a school more than anyone else here. There’s something about Rozelyn that’s never made sense to me. Not since the very first day I found her seated on a bench near the smoke pit.

Knowing what my girl enjoys, I slip my hand beneath her dress, and then beneath the edge of her panties. Her head falls back as I stroke over her clit until she’s wet. There’s already something different about this instance though, as usually, Rozelyn enjoys pretending to fight me.

She’s wet but I don’t enter her, instead checking, “You okay?”

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