Page 60 of Shattered In Darkness

Finally. Silence. For one moment, I choke on relief.

Marcus sits, back rigid, waiting for the echoes to die. I stand in the doorway and wait for the next order. He cocks his head, not looking. “Clear this up,” he barks like I’m a robot or a pet.

I do it. Stack the plates, wipe crumbs. I don’t even taste what’s in the bowls. I could eat the soap instead. When the table is clean enough he gestures. Time for dinner. We sit together at the big, cold slab of a table. Just us. The worst part.

Lights are too bright overhead. My skin prickles under his stare. I pick at a baked potato, push shredded meat around my plate while my stomach squirms.

Marcus cuts his steak into perfect, even cubes; each motion is exact. I force myself to swallow a forkful. My gut protests. My ribs pulse under the turtleneck. He watches me chew, watches my throat work. Every swallow is a performance. Halfway through, I give up. My stomach’s collapsing inward.

“You have to eat more than that,” Marcus says, voice flat. “People notice if you lose too much weight. It doesn’t photograph.”

I nod, pick up the fork again and shove a cold lump of potato in my mouth, trying not to gag.

He finishes first, as always.He stands, chair leg squealing against the floor as he wipes his mouth. “I’ll be in the office. Don’t bother me.”

His footsteps vanish down the hall. The door closes shut. I don’t move for a long time. Eventually, I make my way to my bedroom. A bathroom is connected to it, one of the many bathrooms we have. I wonder why we live in such a big house. It feels unnecessary to have all these rooms.

Especially since it is just me and the monster.

I peel my clothes off and step into the shower. The heat of the water burns at first, making my bruises swell and scream. Then it subsides, and I am numb in the heat. The water cascades, and I wish I could float here forever.

Staring at the wall, I think of Brody. How good he made me feel. How being with him felt like this shower. Warm, safe, secure.

Now I am just a cold body drifting away.

Once the heat of the water runs out, I step out and redress myself in pajama pants and a loose t-shirt. It’s cold in my room. I can’t stop the shaking in my hands. It won’t go away. I try to breathe. I can’t.

The house is too quiet. The wrong kind of quiet. The kind that prickles the back of your neck and makes you want to dig a hole and hide. I drift from the bathroom to the door, checking the lock three times, even though I never used to bother. Not until him.

Down the hallway, darkness pools around every corner. I keep my feet light on the cheap wood floor. I listen. There’s a low rumble outside. Not thunder, more like an engine idling. Then it cuts off. Doors thud. Heavy boots clack on the driveway.

Fuck.

My heart lurches into my neck. I duck to the window and peel up one corner of the blind. I see nothing but the drag of headlights across the curb. But they’re here. Someone’s here. More than one.

I back away, stomach flipping over itself. I run to check the locks. Front door, checked. Then the kitchen. Twist the deadbolt until my wrist aches. My ribs spasm with every move. My phone is in my hand and I text Sophie. “Just checking in,” I type, thumbs clumsy and numb. Nothing comes back; the bubble never moves.

I call her. Maybe she’ll answer. Just a ring, then dead air. It shouldn’t be dead. Why is it dead?

My jaw tenses. I try the home phone. The line is flat, hollow, no sound at all. Panic swarms. Crawling, gnawing, biting me up from the insides. I grip my phone so hard I feel it crack.

Then there is a loud crash. Glass or wood breaking. A flood of footsteps follow, fast and heavy. Shadows slither across the walls. Men. At least two, maybe three. Black masks. Gloves. They don’t hesitate. I scream, or at least, I try, but there’s leather slammed over my mouth before a sound escapes. Someone yanks my arms, wrenching them up behind my back, sharp zip of tape at my wrists.

I thrash, I kick, I claw backwards. They pin me face-down on the floor, knee in my side, one fist grabbing my hair until my scalp feels like it’s on fire. Rough hands shove something over my face. Linen hood, thick. I can’t see. I can barely breathe. I want to bite my tongue off.

In the distance, Marcus shouts. The voice is less a word, more a roar. “What the hell is this? Who the fuck sent you?”

A crash. Desk overturns. Silence. Sick, total silence. All the air gets sucked out of the room. My whole body is filled with terror. Worse than when Marcus gives me punishments.

This is the kind of fear that makes me wonder if I am about to join my mother in the grave. I never felt like that with Marcus, because I know he does not want me dead, despite his cruelty.

But now? I do not know what is going to happen next.

I want to disappear into the floorboards, but the masked men don’t give me a chance. They wrench me up, rough hands everywhere, gloved fingers digging into the soft parts of my arms, my ribs. I try to scream but the linen hood smothers everything. I gag, choke, swallow a mouthful of my own spit.

They drag me. Slam me into every corner, every rough edge in the hallway. My shoulder cracks against the doorframe. My knees scrape tile. My wrists are useless behind my back, throbbing under the tape.

Can’t breathe. I can’t breathe.