Page 24

Scarlett

T he road is a blur, as is the scenery rushing past us at almost lightning speed.

Rain hammers down so hard that it’s hard to see out the front and though the wipers are going full speed, they’re no match for it at all.

My heart is beating frantically against the cage of my ribs.

Sebastian’s flannel shirt is a poor shield against the chill that’s seeped into my bones but I wrap it tighter anyway, wishing the soothing smell of his aftershave could calm the uncontrollable fear inside me.

I can’t tear my eyes away from the rearview mirror, where the pursuing headlights are growing larger, brighter, looking more and more like a predator’s eyes in the darkness.

“Faster, Seb, they’re catching up.” My voice is a whip cracking through the silence. The panic rising like bile in my throat.

Sebastian’s hand finds mine, his grip firm, reassuring. “I’ve got you, Scarlett. I won’t let them take you.”

His words are a balm, but they can’t soothe the terror that’s taken root in my soul.

I’m crying now, tears stream down my face, mingling with the cold fear that’s drenched me to the core.

The wipers are a metronome, ticking away the seconds of our lives, their rhythm hypnotic against the furore of the storm.

“I’m scared,” I whisper. It’s a confession, an admission of the vulnerability I’ve fought so hard to hide.

Sebastian’s thumb strokes the back of my hand, making a silent promise that he’ll keep me safe.

“I know, Scar. But we’re going to make it. I swear it.” His voice is low, determined, and for a moment, I believe him.

The headlights behind us are blinding now, a terrifying closeness that makes my heart stutter. I can almost feel the hot breath of our pursuers breathing down our necks.

“Sebastian...” I choke out his name, my eyes locked on the mirror, on the inevitable collision that looms closer with each passing second.

“I’ve got this.” Sebastian says. “Trust me, Scar, I’ll keep you safe. I won’t let them…”

Something solid, something colossal slams into us. The impact throws me forward and the seatbelt yanks me back with a brutal unforgiving force.

The car careens off the road, tires screeching, the smell of burning rubber filling the air.

I want to cry out, to tell my brother that I love him. That I know he did his best. That it doesn’t matter that he failed. That at least we’ll die here, together.

But I can’t say those words.

I can’t say anything.

All I can do is look on in horror as the darkness in front of us rushes up to meet the wreck that is our car…

“Sebastian.”

I wake with a start, unsure if I actually spoke his name out loud, or just screamed it in my head.

The remnants of a nightmare cling to me, that harrowing vision of twisted metal and shattered glass lingering behind my eyes. And Sebastian, his lifeless eyes staring back at me from the fog of my memory.

We were fleeing, but from whom?

Why was I so scared?

Why would I even need my brother to rescue me?

The answer feels like it’s just beyond my reach. That it’s teasing, taunting me. But it’s not ready to reveal its secret just yet.

For a moment I lie there, disoriented, in a room that is both unfamiliar and horribly, horribly cold.

My body aches all over with a constant throb of pain. Each bruise is a note of violence played upon my skin. I move gingerly, like a wary animal testing its injuries, and the soreness that blooms in response confirms the brutality of my condition.

I don’t know what happened to me.

I don’t know what is going on, but my head is racing.

Was that car crash real? Did that just happen? Where am I?

I force myself up, stumbling to what I assume is the bathroom.

It’s spacious, with white marble tiles and a big claw-footed bathtub in front of a bay window.

At the sink, I splash cold water on my face, hoping to not only wash away the lingering terror but to somehow wake myself up, to shock myself into remembering whatever this place is.

The person in the mirror is a stranger. I look half starved, I look too pale, and my face is twisted into a mask of fear. There’s a livid bruise on my cheek and it’s obvious I’ve been hit, beaten.

Where the fuck am I?

I open the cupboard, searching for something, anything, to ground me in this alien place and provide some sort of reason. There’s a pile of neatly arranged toiletries and in amongst them, a note catches my eye.

I snatch it up, desperate for whatever clue it might be. “ Check under the floorboards” it reads.

The handwriting is not mine, but it’s familiar all the same. I frown, rubbing my face, my memory whispering that I’ve seen these notes before. That I’ve been left similar before.

With trembling hands, I return to the room, my eyes darting to the wooden planks beneath my feet.

What possible horror could be lurking beneath?

There’s a thick rug covering most of the room, with the antique bed placed on top. I fall to my hands and knees, running my fingertips over the visible wood, hoping to find some sort of hint.

And then there, hidden in the corner, a nick in the wood beckons me. I pry the board loose, snapping a few nails as I do it, and beneath I find a little nook.

My hand slips inside. There’s something in the darkness, heavy, wrapped in fabric. I pull it up, placing what looks like a dirty linen pillowcase in my lap. It’s wrapped tightly, and it takes me a moment to undo the knot. When I get it open, I jump back in shock.

It’s a gun.

Why the fuck is there a gun hidden under my bed?

It’s small, what most people would class as a hand pistol. I don’t know how to check if it’s loaded, so I assume it is. Its presence should give me some sense of relief. I mean, I have a weapon now.

But instead, it puts me more on edge. Why the fuck would I need a weapon? Am I in that much danger, wherever the hell I am that I need this sort of protection?

A piece of string dangles from the trigger, with a tiny bit of torn paper. In that same scrawly handwriting says ‘for later’ - as if that means anything.

How am I meant to know when ‘later’ is?

I grit my teeth, turning my attention to the second item that’s been revealed. It’s a book. An old one, with a worn green leather cover. The title was once embossed in gold, but that too has worn away to nothing.

I open it up, flicking through the pages and come to a stop as I realise that someone has scrawled all over the print.

No, not someone.

Me.

It’s my handwriting. My words.

I scan through, reading as quickly as I can. Devouring snippets of what looks like a diary. At least it’s some vain attempt at one. Were these moments when I had enough clarity to log what was going on? Is this memory loss and confusion more than I realise it is?

As I read, the horror of my situation unfolds before me.

I’m married. I married him . Alexander Forster.

What in the world would have led me to do such a stupid, reckless, unthinkable thing as that?

Oh, I remember him. I remember our dates, his charm, his confidence too.

But I remember something else; his need for control, his love of possessing things.

At first, I’d felt thrilled, flattered even that a man as great as he was, was interested in lowly little me, and then I realised it wasn’t me he wanted.

Not my personality, not my passions. He wanted me; the beauty, me; the trophy.

I was to be seen and not heard. Silently alluring. And most of all, obedient.

Why the fuck did I marry him? Why would I have been so stupid as that?

But it gets worse. So much worse.

I choke up. I have to stop myself from reading more as vision after awful vision comes flooding back into my head. It’s like a graphic horror movie, a montage I can’t escape from, only it’s not fiction. I can feel that it’s real, that they did that.

The drugs, the manipulation, the control—it’s all laid bare, a twisted script written in my very own terrified hand.

And then the realization hits me like a physical blow; this is why I feel so broken, so utterly shattered, so bruised and battered.

They did that to me. While I was unconscious. Did they assault me in this very room? Or was I drugged and abused somewhere else, then put to bed here to wake up as if it’d never happened?

Nausea roils in my stomach and I bolt for the bathroom, retching until there’s nothing left but dry heaves and the bitter taste of bile. I slide to the floor, my body wracked with sobs, the cold tile against my skin feeling like the only comfort I know I’ll get in this cursed place.

I can’t stay here.

But as I pace the room, the words I wrote repeat in my head whisper of my helplessness.

Even if I can get out of this building, the tide keeps me confined, granting me a mere hour of freedom each day.

I am isolated. Completely alone. And at the mercy of monsters.

I can’t stay here.

I can’t be a sitting duck, waiting for Alex and his father to come and rape me again.

Despite the fear that claws at my insides, I resolve to explore the house, to understand the labyrinth that has become my prison. Maybe there is some way out, something I haven’t yet discovered.

I half expect the door to be locked, but it opens easily.

There isn’t even a creak of the hinges – should I be grateful for that?

Or repulsed by the knowledge that it’s probably well-oiled for a reason?

They wouldn’t want to be waking up the ghosts when they waltzed into my room each night to abuse me, now would they?

The hallway beyond is ornate. High ceilings, with fancy stone carvings and whitewashed walls. It looks like the set of some gothic novel.

A few oil paintings decorate the vast expanse, but the faces are oppressive. They stare down with scowling, judgemental looks so lifelike it feels like any minute they’ll crawl out of those gilded frames and start admonishing me.

But I know where I am. What this house is.