I cry as I drop the knife. Finally, he loosens his grip on my wrist.
“Oh, sweet one,” he says. “If you truly want to kill me, you’re going to have to try harder than that.”
Panic floods me. I reach for the top of the grave and jump, clutching the dirt. Each handful sends clumps of earth hailing down, but I can’t pull myself out. He rips me from the wall.
My eyes burn, but I snarl at him. “Fuck you?—”
He tackles me to the coffin. My lungs compress and strain for air. He tears down my leggings and begins to mount me. I reach around for the knife, scrambling for anything to help me survive. But his cock impales me, and as he props himself up on his elbows, he grins, like he knows he’s won.
“Looking for this?” He raises the knife, pressing it against my throat. “Tell me, freak. Does your cunt get wet when you’re forced to meet the potential of your death?” The knife pierces my skin, the tiniest trickle of blood tracing my neck like a bead of sweat. I moan, and he snaps his teeth. “It didn’t take anything for me to slide inside of your filthy hole just now. You want me to hurt you with a knife. You want me to fucking take you.”
Tears drown me, and finally, I let go, sinking into the wooden exterior crowding me. My mother’s coffin becomes my cradle, and Dr. Ambrose becomes my home without a door. A locked cage without a key. He is the embodiment of every messed-up thought in my brain.
And he is exactly what I want.
“Don’t move, or I may cut you even more, you pathetic piece of trash,” he says. I shudder. His cock digs a hole inside of me. “You came from a freak, you are a freak, and soon, you’ll be nothing but my fucking freak.”
My chest crushes my heart, and as each valve pulses, pushing blood through my vessels, I tremble so hard against the coffin, the pill container smashes into my thighs.
I still have the poison. It’s not over yet.
But there’s something inside of me that wants to give up, to accept everything. Wouldn’t it be easier to give everything to this man? A man so obsessed he chased and captured me, even after I burned him. Even when I tried to stab him.
A thought echoes across my consciousness: I will never be the person I was before Dr. Ambrose. I am a living corpse, and this is a symbolic death.
He swipes his hand across my face, then licks the tears from his hands, his fingernails black with dirt, and I realize why his hands have been filthy this whole time: he dug up my mother’s grave before the initial examination. The proof of his obsession has always been right in front of me. He stole my dead mother, and he did it to control me.
“Fuck you!” I scream. I don’t know if I’m mad at him or myself, but I’m frustrated, and it’s the only thing I can say to hold on to my old self. “Fuck you, you fucking?—”
“You are fucking me, sweet one,” Dr. Ambrose says with a cold laugh. Goosebumps ripple over my skin as his cock jabs inside of me. He puts his lip to my ear, the knife pressed against my neck. “And soon, fucking me will be the only joy in your miserable existence.”
Chapter 19
Dr. Ambrose
A sense of gratitude washes over me as Oliver and I carry Violet back inside of the Ambrose Asylum. It should have been difficult to get the hand and ankle cuffs on her, but post-orgasm, I choked her unconscious, and the bitch had no choice but to welcome the restraints. Afterward, Oliver helped pull her out of the grave, and by the time she woke up, she was in the back of my van.
Now, barely able to take more than a half step in front of her without tripping from the restraints, she wriggles like a worm, eager to show her complete rejection of me and the asylum, to cling to the lie that she doesn’t belong here.
Her murder attempts delight me. She seems determined to kill me, though I’m sure it’s becoming harder to find the motivation to follow through with it. She likes having her father too much.
With our new brain chip, she’ll become a doll, but I guarantee the fire will still be visible in her small, dark eyes.
I’m proud of my discipline, allowing her the space to grow independently while fostering her obsessions from afar. An article here. An old birth certificate there. A rumor whispered nearby. A dash of pink paint across a headstone, and suddenly, she can only think about me.
“Fuck you!” she hisses.
A patient gawks, while another hunches their shoulders, stealing glances in our direction. A guard nods at me, then resumes his focus on the other two patients. No one truly listens to the young woman’s cries.
She shouts: “You can’t do this! You can’t?—”
“Why do you insist on pretending like you didn’t orchestrate this entire process so you could find your precious mother?” I ask. I jerk the handcuffs; she stumbles. I use the chain to pull her up to her feet. “You wanted to find out if she truly was a freak. Now, you get to experience it for yourself.”
A blood-curdling scream erupts from her chest, and I chuckle, exchanging a knowing look with Oliver and the other staff members in the area. Violet’s reaction is confirmation I’m correct; the best part is she knows I am.
We take Violet to a doorless room with special restraining equipment. Though Violet isn’t truly a danger to herself or others, the fact is she tried to murder me twice; she could become volatile at any moment. She must be completely restrained.
Furthermore, it pleases me to keep her separated from the other patients. Alone. Desperate for attention. My attention.
