“She’s been lying on the floor for hours.”
“It’s a thousand times worse at night,” Balen explained. “Keep the door locked and leave her alone. It took me weeks to learn that being around anything with blood pumping through it made it a fuck of a lot worse.”
I never wanted to enter that room again, yet somewhere inside that crazed girl lying in there was Abby. “How long?”
Silence.
“Jesus Christ, Balen, I need answers. It’s taking everything I have not to walk out that fuckin’ door and leave.” But I wouldn’t. I knew I fuckin’ wouldn’t, because it hurt to see her like this. It ate away at my insides like acid, a slow burning pain that was destroying me.
Fuck, she was destroying the coldness I had built up around me. Every day, a piece chipped off and I felt more. I hurt more.
Danni’s voice blasted into my head through telepathy. She was one of the rare few who could speak telepathically long distances. “Don't you dare give up on her, Damien. Stop thinking of yourself and help her get through this.”
“Tell your woman to stay out of my head.” I yanked the phone from my ear, tapped end, and tossed it on the kitchen counter.
Running my hand through my black, jagged strands, I approached the room and turned the doorknob. Her body blocked the door, so she slid across the floor as I shoved it open before closing it again.
I crouched beside her and her eyes flicked open. I tensed, ready for another battle, but instead, they weren’t filled with bloodlust. They were soft.
“Damien?”
“Yeah, baby.” The insanity passed—for now. Until dusk. Then it would start all over again. She was like this during the day, her normal self, confused and scared. That’s what fucked me up the most.
I slipped an arm under her back and the other under her thighs, picking her up and striding over to the bed. I gently laid her onto the mattress and straightened the twisted sheets, pulling them up over her. She gripped the edge and I noticed her fingernails were all chipped, some of them bleeding.
I ground my teeth. This shouldn’t fuckin’ be happening to her, damn it.
“I’m sorry,” she whispered in a husky voice. “For last night.”
She said that pretty much every morning for the past two weeks, and yet she had no recollection of what she’d done. It wasn’t hard to figure out with the scratches on my neck and arms. Now I knew why Jedrik had left chains hanging on the bedposts. I had to admit, I’d been too cocky, thinking I’d be able to control her with muscle power alone.
And in the beginning, I could, but it was becoming worse, and soon I’d be forced to use the chains on her at night.
“I know.” And I did. I saw it in her beaten expression, her eyes drawn and tired. There was no spark, no stubborn gleam.
“Leave me here.” Her voice was barely a whisper and was harsh, probably because of her screaming. “Go home, Damien.”
I snorted. “You’re not getting off that easy.”
She half-smiled; then it fell away. “This is my fault. I did this. I can’t… I can’t do this any longer.” She paused. “And neither can you.” A tear escaped the corner of her eye and I almost reached out to wipe it away.
Do not go near her. I had to keep myself distant. Couldn’t get too close. “You have to eat, Abby. I’ll make you soup. How about mushroom?” I didn’t wait for a response and headed for the door.
“How long, Damien? How long can we do this for?” she asked when my hand reached for the doorknob.
Balen said it could be months, years, or there was a good possibility she’d die. Her and the child. My fuckin’ child and my little red-haired pixie witch.
I flung open the door then said, “As long as it takes, Abbs. As long as it fuckin’ takes.”
Six Months Later
I LEFT THERAPY FEELING psychologically drained. Today I’d had a breakthrough, as Rebecca called it—more like a breakdown—and it opened up a part of myself that I thought had died long ago.
It took months of Rebecca constantly urging me to open up, to feel emotions with the role-playing and art. But today we pried open the dark corners of my mind.
Where Anton lived. At least his words did.
The years of constant belittling, telling me over and over again that I was a failure. A disappointment. I was never good enough. And when he shouted at me, which was when I used to fight, he made me feel like a tiny bug on the floor that he squashed with one stomp.
Sometimes he’d put the bug in a glass jar and watch it with those beady eyes until it cowered in the corner. He liked that the best.
He liked me to cower under his glare.
God, when had it happened? When had I become so trapped within myself that I forgot who I was?
Rebecca asked me to take on Anton’s role and she was me. That hit me hardest seeing Rebecca sitting on the couch, hands in her lap, head down, trembling while I, as Anton, shouted at her.
And I hated—Me. It was there right in front of me.
Anton had steamrolled every bit of pride. Seeing that, it made me want to fight harder. And I was angry. I hadn’t been angry in a long time, and it was like I’d been cracked open and pieces of who I was scattered in front of me.
I just had to pick them up and put them back in place.
After the session, I walked home thinking of my safe place to center myself. My steps were self-assured, my shoulders straight, chin lifted. It was weird not worrying about what strangers thought about me as I passed. I wanted to find my voice and fight back. I didn’t want to be scared anymore.