Page 38 of Reckoning

“Mr. Montague…”

“You will do it.” My father growls. “Don’t forget who owns this facility, who owns all of you…”

“Daddy,” I whisper, shocked.

He turns his head, narrowing his eyes at me. “Tomorrow. We’ll try one more transplant.”

* * *

It’s been a week.A week of unbearable attention. Every newspaper, every magazine, every damned social media channel is posting images of me, old images, ones where I’m stood beside Otto, where I look exactly like the crack-whore they’re already declaring me to be now.

One even has a two page spread on the impending court case, on how it would be reckless to let me have my portion of Otto’s wealth because all I’ll do is spend it on drugs. Like I want his money. Like I don’t have enough of my own. Sure, Otto was rich, but the portion I’m supposedly getting pales in comparison to what I have in my own accounts. Besides, I have no intention of keeping that money. I never wanted to marry him, I wanted nothing to do with any of it. It’s his damned second wife that insists on ‘playing fair’.

I barely leave my room. I hide in the semi-darkness, with all the curtains perpetually drawn, and the TV constantly on but silent.

I’m unable to sleep but unable to stay awake either.

I know they didn’t drug me this time. That they simply sedated me and injected me with alcohol but I can’t get over how easy it was for them. How pathetically easy.

I still don’t believe it was me that went to that garage, I don’t believe I drove that car, that I did any of it – surely I’d remember? Surely I’d have flashbacks? And why the hell would drunk me do any of that anyway? It makes no sense.

I skip my therapy session and I don’t give a fuck what anyone thinks. I’m not capable of discussing my feelings, of picking over more of my past. And especially, I’m not willing to put myself back in that space, inthatstairwell.

Ben comes to check on me, he brings a bunch of grapes as if I’m sick, and I force myself to be friendly, to be sociable, while he acts like I never tried to kiss him, like that night of shame never occurred. I guess I should be grateful for that, no, Iamgrateful. By doing that, by pretending the way he is, he’s ensuring we can still be friends, that I haven’t wrecked everything between us.

He orders takeaway and once again I can’t take a bite, I don’t dare too. We watch a movie, watch a comedy that at least makes me laugh a little but I can feel the way he keeps glancing at me. I can feel the way he’s studying me, trying to figure out if I’ve returned to that broken creature I was when I was first rescued.

As the credits load, I let out a sigh. It’ll be nighttime soon. When the minutes turn into days and the hours turn into decades.

“Can I say something?” Ben murmurs.

I turn my head, bite my lip, readying myself for whatever he needs to unload.

“You hiding like this, you shutting yourself away, you’re only letting them win. Lettinghimwin.” He states.

I curl my hands into fists, but I wince all the same. I know he doesn’t understand, I know he can never comprehend the fear of being trapped, caged, hurt the way I was.

“You’re better than this.” He adds.

“Am I?” I reply.

He tilts his head, his eyes flashing, for once not in sympathy but in frustration. “The Sofia I knew was brave, bold, defiant.”

“Yeah? The Sofia you knew is dead.” I state, folding my arms. She died a long time ago.

“No, she isn’t. She’s just afraid. She’s been beaten so badly she’s forgotten what it feels like to live. So she got used to hiding in the shadows, existing there…”

“The shadows are safe.” I cut across him.

“But you belong in the real world, Sofia, otherwise what is the point in any of this?”

I stare at him, blinking. Whatisthe point? I guess he’s right. There is no point. There is no point to any of this.

Perhaps he’s not expecting a reply. Perhaps he knows he won’t get one but he sees himself out while I stay there, alone, caught up in the swirling anger in my head.

I deserve better.

I deserve to be happy.