I tremble. The tendons in his neck pull taut, and I swear, he wants to kill me right now.
“Say what you have to say, you fucking bitch,” he growls.
Fear closes my throat. Somehow, I inch backward and get the words out. “H-her file says she was here because her sexually addictive behavior interfered with her daily life. But you did so much worse to her, didn’t you? You faked her issues so you could test her with your own fucked-up desires. You’re the fucking freak!”
“And you asked your pathetic, straight-laced boyfriend to piss in your mouth like a fucking toilet,” he snarls. He knocks his boot into my chest, forcing me onto my back, and I quickly prop myself up on my hands, sprawled out like a crab. He moves his boot between my legs, the rubber sole grinding into my pussy. “You’re obsessed with your need for perverted satisfaction.”
His cock twitches in his pants, and his expression contorts, the physical agony running through him. Then a smirk begins to crawl over his face.
He likes the pain.
Everything in my mind goes blank. Coldness surrounds me.
“You make these accusations about me, and yet you refuse to acknowledge your own desires and behavior,” he says. I shiver. He twists his ankle, his rubber boots smothering my pussy raw. “My darling, sweet one, we tried to help your mother, but some cases can’t be cured.”
He bends down and brushes his hand over the top of my head, petting me like an animal. Ice runs down me. He chuckles deeply. He doesn’t seem entertained; he seems livid, forcing a laugh before the real torture begins. Tears crowd my throat. His upper lip curls.
“We’re both freaks,” he says. “And that is your problem, sweet one. Your issues are very much real. You belong here.”
Chapter 16
Violet
I don’t belong in the asylum.
My issues aren’t real.
I faked the symptoms.
I’m not obsessed with getting perverted satisfaction.
I’m not obsessed.
I’m here because I choose to be here.
I’m here because of my mom.
I’m here because?—
For the next hour, these mantras roll around in my head, an endless loop trying to convince myself of my reasons and actions. Everything is a blur. My mind can’t fully process anything.
I don’t remember getting dressed. I don’t remember Dr. Ambrose escorting me from the basement to his office. I don’t remember Benji picking me up. I don’t remember getting in the car or putting on my seatbelt. Did Benji buckle me up? Did Dr. Ambrose?
I repeat these phrases internally to keep myself in check, because when I stall, my brain falls back to Dr. Ambrose’s words:
Your issues are very much real.
You’ll be back.
You belong here.
We’re both freaks.
It’s sunset, the early evening chill settling around us. The asphalt whizzes by. White dashes. Yellow lines. Red lights. Red, like the acid burns on Dr. Ambrose’s face. Yellow, like the sagging skin under his eyes. White, like the thick scars on his cock.
“You don’t have to go through with this,” Benji says.
I stay fixated on the road. Benji has said things like this before, warning me the Ambrose Asylum is a bad place, claiming he wants to protect me. And maybe some stupid part of me assumed Benji would always be here to rescue me. Maybe that’s what he’s doing now.
