He wasn’t sure why he bothered.
Nothing ever saved him.
“You’ve been hearing voices again, Brooks,” she tsked. “I was sure we had taken care of that problem.”
Her voice floated from behind him as she pressed a cold hand to his shoulder. His skin prickled from disgust, hatred, and absolute terror.
She rubbed small circles on his bare skin that others may mistake for a kind, soothing gesture, but he knew it for what it was.
Excitement.
Anticipation.
The longer she waited, the more frantic he became. Fear was nothing but an aphrodisiac to her. He tried and failed a million times to be stoic. But when you’ve been through therapy with Dr. Mel Kore more times than you can count, bravery and modesty were nothing but ghosts of the past.
“I’m going to place your head gear now. Do try not to move.” The smile in her voice was evident. Of course he couldn’t fucking move. He was strapped to a table.
She was drinking terror like fine wine.
“Please,” he tried, but the heel turned his words into a muffled grunt.
He hated being vulnerable. He hated begging. He hated how fucking weak it made him feel and not a night went by that he didn’t dream of gutting her.
But, as the pronged metal apparatus that would deliver the electricity was placed upon his head, the fight drained from his soul. All that was left was a broken man terrified of never waking up again to a sing-song voice of sunshine.
Then again, maybe he should welcome the death. Gods knew how often he craved it.
“There, there, Brooks. We’re going to fix you.” Dr. Kore walked to the control panel and readied the machine.
The instinct to fight for his life urged him to move, to flee, to survive.
Instead…
He cried.
He screamed.
He begged.
Nothing stopped her from flipping the switch.
IttookXiaovera week to recoup what the Devil had taken from her. She lay on her satin sheets under the feather duvet for days before her kidneys screamed for relief. Emptying her bladder felt like a mountain of a task, but it had been unavoidable.
That was always the worst part of dealing with the wreckage he caused–climbing out of it. Sometimes she wasn’t sure where she found the strength to do it, but she always did.
The covers atop her were soft and made of the finest materials. Her four-poster bed was gilded with intricate carvings in the wood that matched all of the furniture placed about.
A pretty prison made of glass and a shattered princess to keep it company.
She studied her fish swimming in their own glass prisons as a pang of guilt hit her chest. How many fish would she collect before it was over? How many men would have to die so she could live? It was a question she’d lived with unanswered her entire life.
Sometimes, one man would do. But when she was drained? Or her island demanded blood as payment? It was a massacre.
Tonight, she would have to take a life. Many lives.
Tonight, she would have to face the monster that looked back in the mirror and reconcile with what it has done.
A soft knock sounded before the heavy ornate door swung open.
