Lennox watches in horror, his fists balled to prevent him from reacting as he relies on the only thing he has ever held faith in.Isadora, protect your child, ward him like you did during the first years of his life.
The only person in the room who doesn’t have a reaction of abject terror or joy is the boy. He watches, waiting to find out who he’ll be gifted to for the night. It’s the only role heknows, but he has no preference until the masks come off. His time circulating between the guards before the entertainment began was cut short, so he wasn’t able to find the one who always marks his body to be able to put them at a disadvantage. He stands beside Rowan, his master—unknowingly, his father—with his small hand in his, awaiting his fate.
Will it be the one who asked his name?
He hopes not, as he knows those who want to befriend him wish to keep him. And if you’re taken by those who visit The Dollhouse, you’ll become like Bianca. Those who are given names are owned, so he has the most control when his master plays these games because he can cut the guard before the entertainment begins—make them weaker, less entertaining. It’s why he gently glides his tongue against the blade hugging the inside of his cheek as a reminder that he can help himself.
Kane has nine mirrors left, eighteen reflections who stand opposite him when he pauses to catch his breath. He’s not the weaker one or the one being overpowered now they’re frozen like he was.
It’s another mark against his soul, telling him he’s the abuser. He abused Delilah, tormented her. Neither of them have used the correct word for what he did. Fucked with her head, played with her emotions, manipulated her, chased her—the list goes on, all detailing that he did abuse her.
That fact, more than anything, is one he can’t bear when he was convinced he was vindicated in how he treated her. It was poetic justice, not abuse, to him. He was ensuring she felt the pain she caused him. Yet as he stands there staring at his broken features—covered in blood—reflected back to him, he has the urge to bring the knife to his own throat to escape the reality of what he’s become.
Each of the nine reflections develop a voice, Asher’s voice.“We’re the same now, reflection. We hit her. We raped her. Wetook. We lied to her. We manipulated her. We terrified her. We made her question herself. We brought her to Rowan.”
To block out the truth, he looks down. Only, there’s a tenth reflection staring up at him as a guard rolls over. This one has blood sprayed on the surface of the mirror, yet it doesn’t distort the voice as Asher says,“We’re the reason she dies.”
“NO!” Kane screams as he lifts his foot and brings it down with enough force to crack the mask, fracturing his reflection. Which isn’t enough. Nothing can allow him to destroy the monster when it’s deep inside him. The voice in his head isn’t his own, it’s a ghost who clings to him, refusing to let go after keeping him company in solitary—controlling his life since he was released. There’s no other option when there’s a steady stream of venom dripped in your ear, but he can’t simply walk away from Asher when he’s become part of him.
The screams and cracking of bones makes Bianca look up. She hasn’t lifted her head in years so the movement aches. She makes the mistake now as she witnesses the carnage around her. Mutilated genitals, blood, the tools of her torment laid lifeless on the floor have an involuntary smile lifting her lips. Her cheeks ache from the new movement as she swallows, wetting her throat before she hoarsely whispers, “End it all.”
That small croak snaps something inside of Kane due to the arrangement of the words. His fourth attempt at taking his life had him in the infirmary for months. When he was being administered a sedative during one of his mental episodes, he begged the doctors to end it all.
He doesn’t react the way they did—prolonging Bianca’s agony. He tells himself it’s an act of compassion as he steps over the dead guards and lowers to his knees in front of her, nodding. “End it all.”
She nods too, the alien smile growing.
He shows her respect for the first time in the seventeen-years-long torment she’s existed in as he wipes the knife so it doesn’t have her abusers’ blood on it, then his hands. Once he’s cleaned as much off as he can, he wraps his fingers around the handle, gently holds the top of her head with his other hand, then carefully tilts her head backwards.
In one swift motion, he buries the knife in the side of her neck, just behind her ear, before he drags it across to meet the other side of her spinal cord.
Bianca, the girl with blood—among other bodily fluids—on her face, will never know what the sun feels like on her skin, or how big the world is as she takes her last breath with the first smile on her face within The Dollhouse she was bred for.
22
KANE
Blood coats my hands like gloves as I slowly lay the woman on her side. There’s no life in her eyes, but her lips are still set in a small smile as she blankly stares at me. I gently use my thumb and middle finger to close her eyelids, leaving crimson smudges on them.
“It seems we have a winner,” Rowan announces.
I turn to see him lift the boy’s hand then push him forward. Fucking sick prick. Children aren’t prizes or anything to be gifted to someone. At least I can make sure no one will touch him, so I apologize to the man I thought I would be because if there’s another competition, I’ll beat everyone in the room to make sure he doesn’t collect any more scars.
He’s reluctant to leave Rowan’s side until Lennox places his hand on the boy’s small shoulder, guiding him towards me. I hate the fucker. My disgust is visible in his mirrored mask, but he doesn’t react to it as he walks me to a bedroom with the same polished concrete walls.
There’s only a bed in the corner, a thin foam mattress on the metal frame, and a fleece blanket tucked in military-style. He doesn’t say anything as he leaves while I look at my newcell, noting the differences which will stop me recalling the old memories as the thick steel door behind me hisses, the locks engaging. Thick lead pipes cross over each other on the ceiling, breaking up all the concrete in the room. There’s no window as I slowly turn in a circle, looking between the door we came through and another on the other side of the small room. Two differences are all I have to focus on—pipes and a second door.
“Have you picked a name, kid?” I ask.
He shakes his head as I check the other door. As expected, there’s a bathroom. The room was clearly chosen ahead of time because there’s a bag of my clothes on the porcelain sink. There’s no lock on the door when I close it. I can’t hear the kid trying to escape, so I turn, swiping the bag off the sink and staring into the aged mirror above it.
I can barely see my features with all the mirror’s desilvering. There’s blood on half of my face, already dried in the creases under my eyes. Every day, I get further away from the innocent eighteen-year-old boy. I’m in my thirties now, but I still expect a kid to be staring back at me whenever I look in a mirror.
The pipes groan as I turn the faucet, icy water coming through. Scooping it in my hands, I wash my face before staring back in the mirror. The blood is still there. So are the creases. Little pink drops race down my face, disappearing into my stubble.
I keep scrubbing, checking my reflection until I’m free of any blood, then turn to change so I don’t have to see my body. It’s stupid as fuck and I thought the tattoos would help make it feel like mine. I hate the skin I’m in. Not because of anything aesthetic; it just doesn’t belong to me.
The same reoccurring thought comes back: is Delilah lucky for not remembering? She was in pain until she remembered everything she’d been through. We’re the same, yet different. She knows what it feels like for her control to be taken away,but her reaction is different than mine. She uses it for fuel; I’m restrained by it.
