Iknowthis place.
Not from being here, but from somewhere else.
Someoneelse’s nightmares.
I try the handle of the metal door, but unsurprisingly, it's locked up tight.
The other leads to a bathroom. There's a sink, a toilet, and a showerhead in an alcove without a curtain or even a pane of glass separating it from the rest of the space. It's tiled in a deep maroon red that makes it look dark even when I flick on the overhead light.
I take a moment to drink some water from the faucet and cup some against the angry wound on my forehead. It's not until I leave the bathroom that I notice the woodwork I saw on the bedposts and frame isn't woodwork at all.
My fingers trace the tally marks carved into the wood. Hundreds of them. Maybe thousands. Each one of them a day.
Each one a day Elijah woke up in this room and didn’t know if he would ever leave it.
My fingers recoil and my skin chills, growing damp with a cold sweat.
I shake my head, stalking to the center of the room, spinning on my heel to look again. Closer this time.
The bed. The tally marks. The skylight. The locked door.
My eyes race along the walls, along the ivory marble bench set into the base of them. Stopping only when I find what I'm looking for.
In a trance, I close the distance and slump onto my knees, reaching toward the missing section of stone.
This is where he did it.
This is the place where Elijah picked up a heavy, jagged stone and decided he would rather mutilate himself—rather die—than paint another stroke for the man who imprisoned him.
The edges are rough under my fingertips, and I swear I can feel the echoes of his despair soaked into the stone.
I choke back a heavy sob and blink away the dampness in my eyes, snatching my hand back to press my closed fist to my chest.
We should've listened to him.
"I'm so sorry, Elijah."
I know in my soul that he'll always blame himself for not fighting harder to stop me.
The door groans behind me and I lurch to my feet, pressing my back to the wall as I search for something to use to defend myself with and find nothing.
One man holds the door open while two others I don't recognize enter, but Ambrose enters after them, and it all comes smashing back into brutal, blinding clarity.
My mother. The team he sent after my guys.
The hatred in my heart knows no limits, burning away the stiffness and pain.
"You fucking bastard!"
I don't make it more than five steps before I'm restrained, but it doesn't stop me from trying. Not even when it feels like they'll rip my shoulder back out of its socket.
I spit at him, and he looks at the offensive wad on the tile by his feet with haughty disdain.
"I see I have my work cut out for me." He clucks his tongue. "This sort of disrespect will not be tolerated, Aurora."
"Fuck you!"
He tsks me and extends a hand toward the man still at the door. "I'll take that, Jared."
