ROSE
Awave of nausea swelled through my gut as consciousness crept in, slow and heavy. Colors blurred and swirled, the world spinning in an orbit I didn’t recognize.
A distant buzz echoed in my ears—like static at first, then a hum. A low, vibrating pulse that tickled the back of my brain.
Rain.
The unmistakable sound of it slapping concrete, streaming through gutters, rattling against glass. Then a crack of thunder, sharp and violent. The room I was in shook. Another crack—closer this time—like the earth splitting open.
Vomit surged up my throat. I attempted to roll onto my side, but was pinned in place. Panic snapped awake inside me, a primal kind of fear that flooded every vein with ice. I was tied down. My ankles and wrists, tied down.
I choked, gagging as bile flooded my mouth. My body convulsed—and then two gloved hands grabbed my face, turned my head to the side just in time.
I vomited, hard. Spit, bile, everything I’d eaten—or hadn’t—poured out of me in sick, wet heaves.
“Better?”
My heart froze. I knew that voice. I blinked the tears away then craned my neck to see Theo Kline, my boss, standing over me in a white lab coat. He stared down at me, holding a clipboard in his gloved hands.
Theo. Kline.
My stalker.I knew it instantly.
“It’s from the chloroform,” he said. “You should feel better after throwing up.”
My eyes widened as the room slowly came into focus. The first thing I noticed was the smell, chemicals mixed with an earthy, musty scent. And something… burned. Burned toast, maybe? Hair? My stomach swirled again. A trio of lightbulbs dangled from cords attached to a dark, cement ceiling. I was in a basement, somewhere underground. The walls were lined with rotted wooden shelves, each covered with mason jars of various sizes, filled with cloudy liquids—and things floating inside them. Shapes. Pieces. Body parts?
My throat convulsed.
At the end of the shelves sat the stuffed animal, Creepy-Ted, and the video recorder that had been hidden in my home.
A crank whined and my torso was slowly lifted upright, to a seated position. That’s when I noticed the wires coming from my arms. It took me a second to realize they weren’t IVs and that they were attached to my skin with something sticky. The wires were connected to a large, black piece of blinking equipment in the corner. Black wires ran from it like octopus tentacles, spreading across the stained concrete floor.
And then—I saw her.
“June…”
My guardian angel, June Massey, was tied to another table across the room. Her eyes were closed, squeezed in pain. Her face was pale, lips blue. And under each wire, ran a river of blood and pus from blackened, burned skin.
Tacked to the wall above her head were the crime scene photos of my foster mother, Cheryl, dead, with a needle hanging out of her arm, bile running out of her blue lips, her eyes staring lifelessly into the camera. Her face frozen in death. I was staring at the image of my childhood trauma, the moment that defined my entire life, and beside it—June. The woman who’d saved me. Who loved me.
I heaved. Vomit again.
Theo wiped my mouth like he was cleaning up a child. “Better now?”
“Let her go.” My voice cracked. “Let her go, Theo.”
He cocked his head, fascinated. His pupils were wide, blown with madness. “Ah, but that’s the point of this little science experiment, Rose. This is the culmination. Everything has led to this.”
“You, Rose Floris, are the perfect subject.”
My heart pounded in my chest. “You’re insane.”
“No,” he said softly. “I’m thorough. You see, you experienced horrific traumas at a young, impressionable age, and while science tells us these kinds of events would lead to significant neurological impact, you have been able to control the effects. Your will to survive, to overcome, is nothing short of extraordinary. So, I wondered, what would it take to break that resolve? Are you really extraordinary, Rose? Or is it all a cover? Can a human really ever overcome their past? That’s what we’re here today to find out.”
He turned toward the black machine, flipping a switch.It beeped, high-pitched and rhythmic. The same beep from every hospital monitor, but here, in this basement, it sounded like a countdown to death.
“You allowed your foster mother to die when you were eight years old. It was your fault, Rose. You could have saved her. Now,” he nodded to June, “you have a chance to save the woman who saved your life. Will you redeem yourself today? Redeem yourself for killing your foster mom by saving June?”
