I stayed in the cage because I felt safer there.
It had been a week since I saw Woody and his fucked-up father. Woodrow was surely in an eternal slumber, his body now permanently owned by another. There was no other reason as to why he wouldn’t have come for me by now.
Morning had arrived. I knew thanks to Wynter’s voice seeping through the floorboards, as she brutally murdered another of my favorite songs.
I had nothing left for comfort. I couldn’t sing myself to sleep and the daydreams that took over ninety percent of my time, brought more pain than they did pleasure, because, at some point, I’d always wake back up in a state of severe depression.
It had taken me the longest time to fall asleep; I’d barely had any. And sleep was all I ever tried to do to pass the time—my nightmares, more lenient than my reality.
Death got closer each day, and I couldn’t wait for that day to finally arrive.
The door to the basement opened and slammed shut, and Jesus fell from the wall where he'd been rehung. The wooden crossbounced off my head, and landed in front of my face. My eyes opened and focused on it, while my hand reached to the pain it caused me.
He was back to protect me.
I clutched Jesus from the floor, pulling him into my chest as I tried to sit up, begging him for the strength to fight through whatever came next if he wouldn't lead me into heaven.
Heels clicked and clacked down the steps, a slight hobble still present in her stride.
I didn't look up to see her cold glare fixed on me. I'd seen enough of that on every other visit when I’d pleaded to her to help me as Ville beat and bruised me until I couldn't talk. . . as he fucked my mouth to keep me quiet, and she got off on it.
They didn't approve of my screaming and crying when I was first locked down here, growing tired of hearing me quickly. Apparently, I was scaring Nessie. I’d learned the hard way to be quiet, but the punishments continued even when I was well-behaved.
“No hello? Where are your manners?”
I kept my eyes on Jesus, my questioning gaze wondering why he hadn't saved me yet.
Wynter's body bent down to my level, her knees clicking with the movement. I looked at her for a moment, my hate showing.
“Oh, if looks could kill.” She laughed, sounding like every mean girl I'd ever known. . . only worse. “Good grief, don’t you look beautiful.” She laughed again, a snort overriding her giggle.
I hated her laugh. I hated everything about her.
“He can't help you,” she said, examining the figure in my hands. “He never helped me, either.”
“Cry me a river.” I couldn't help one jibe.
Wynter stared at me, looking nothing like the woman I met months ago. Her appearance had changed since the day I met her, her mannerisms, too. She'd become as cold as the season she was named after, with a scowl permanently sat on her red lips, that lifted in a way that made her look like she was constantly smelling dog shit, and she’d put red streaks through her hair, which, if I didn’t know better, I’d say was the blood of her victims.
“I could. I've been through a lot worsethan you have.”
“It's not a competition, Wynter. . . and if it was, are you so sure you'd win? Even after the worst moments of your life, you still had someone in your corner. I don't have that, do I? What have you done to your son?”
“He’s upstairs, Jolie, pretending to be someone he’s not.”
I looked away from her sneer.
“Oh, don’t do that. I don’t care to see all those unattractive scars. The other side is slightly better to look at. Though you never were a beauty queen.” She used her words to hurt me, because, physically, she wasn’t strong enough. And my mind was fragile enough for her to break.
“Anyway, where were we? Woodrow. . . the only reason he was ever in your corner is because that's where monsters lurk. He's a rapist. Your rapist.”
“That wasn't Woodrow.”
“Potato, potato,” she said, giving two different pronunciations. “Is there really a difference? Is that what you believe? That he has a medical condition? What if I told you it’s a lie? That it’s what he tells you, in order to manipulate you.”
“It’s not, and we both know, the person with powers of manipulation in this house, is your husband. Maybe he’s what really corrupted you.”
“Don’t you dare! He is a god to me. He saved me. What made me cold and hard, was life. Being raped by my brother. Impregnated by him or fuck-knows-who at sixteen. Maybe it was all that.”
