Wake to Dream, page 6
"What happened?" she managed to ask, her tongue thick and her mouth parched dry. "Where am I?"
A deep toned laughed answered her, not boisterous and loud, but quiet and cruel. "You're home," the man said, his name slowly returning to her thoughts. "You hyperventilated and passed out."
Her eyes shot up to lock with his.
"Don't worry, my love, you were only out for a few seconds. I caught you before you fell forward out of the chair."
Max. The name came back to her. Understanding of the situation returned. A tremor ran through her bones, her empty stomach cramping as the rush of blood thundered in her aching skull.
Either oblivious to her crushing fear or apathetic of it, Max settled himself at her feet, his hands reaching out to grip around her ankles. "We were discussing your new life. I hadn't gotten far before you panicked."
His fingers slid up her calves, a delicate touch for a man that was twice her size.
"You have no reason to panic. You should be happy with what I have planned for you. There will be no struggle, no worries or concerns. Life will become magic as it should."
Releasing one leg, he reached up, his knuckles barely rubbing against her cheek before she flinched away from his touch. She couldn't move far before he extracted his hand. Rotating his clenched fist up, he released his fingers. Light flashed against a coin held in his palm, her eyes widening as a slight grin pulled at his lips.
"You had something behind your ear," he teased. "A simple trick, but only the beginning of all you can discover."
Alice wanted to retch. "I don't like tricks. I don't like magic. I want to go home."
His fist clenched over the coin. "You are home." His arm flew out, the coin a torpedo across the open room, pinging off the wall before tumbling over the tile floor. Alice watched as that coin seemingly spun over itself, seconds passing before it fell unceremoniously to its side.
By the time she drew her attention back to Max, he'd pushed himself up to his feet, glowering down at her from his full height of six foot four.
It was unknown to Alice why she chose that moment in particular to act out. Perhaps it was an instinct to survive, or anger towards this man for making decisions for her life without soliciting her permission or opinion. It could have been something as simple as a remnant of her teenage rebellion, still alive inside her despite the years she managed to grow and mature.
For whatever reason it was, her next actions came without clear thought, without logical analysis of what could, or could not, be accomplished with violence.
Shooting up from her chair, she took Max by surprise, easily running past him, struggling not to trip over heavy feet. Her balance was precarious, the movement of her legs and arms uncoordinated, but she kept going, refusing to stop for even a second to look back.
Noticeably absent was the sound of heavy steps behind her.
Ignoring the lack of pursuit, she ran to a window, jewel toned sunlight flooding her determined features as she cast aside the curtains to find the shadow of bars beyond the stained glass. Closely spaced and thick as her arm, even if Alice were to break the glass, those bars would prevent her escape.
Her gaze shot to a thick wood door. She didn't need to approach to understand that even if it led outside, it wouldn't be her path to freedom. Seated on the wood was a heavy deadbolt lock, the key missing, leaving an empty hole that mocked her captivity. Above the lock was a modern numerical keypad, a red light flashing that was at odds with the antique details of the house.
Spinning in place, she felt feral, an animal caged as it awaited slaughter. Her pulse pounded a frantic beat, sweat slipping down sticky skin as her eyes swept the room for anything that could be used as a weapon.
A lamp sat on a side table next to a white, tufted chaise lounge, the shade a beautiful and intricate piece of stained glass sitting atop a heavy iron base. Lunging for the lamp, she ripped the power cord from the wall before raising the weight of the lamp above her head and turning to find that Max was nowhere within view.
The house was deafening in its silence, her rushing blood a pulsing beat that flooded her ears as she took a tentative step towards the kitchen.
Where had he gone, and how had he moved without her being aware he'd left the room?
Alice's body stilled, her breath sputtering from her lips as she attempted to focus. Her gaze traveled the length of the room, peeking into the kitchen as she spun in place desperate to find the man who had dragged her into this nightmare.
Time ticked past, a grandfather clock chiming from a distant room, the cheerful melody taunting her with a sense of home and normalcy. After the clock struck noon, the house was returned to a sickening silence.
"Are you done yet?"
She spun on her heels at the sound of his voice, the lamp yanked from her trembling fingers before she could react. The shade shattered against the ground where it was tossed, Max' fingers gripping into her thick hair before she was ripped off her feet.
Her body crashed to the floor beside the shattered lamp, her palm cut open by the broken glass. The deep, dark crimson shade of blood caught her gaze just before her body was pulled up, turned and slapped back against the ground like a slab of meat. The trace amount of breath remaining in her lungs was forced out by the weight of Max' body crushing down on her own.
Straddling her stomach, Max held her shoulders to the ground, a placid mask of indifference on his face, his shoulder length, obsidian hair a wild frame around his head.
Alice bucked against him despite her grim understanding that she was helpless beneath him.
"Stop fighting me, Alice. There is nowhere you can go. You're only making things worse."
His controlled voice was in perfect contrast to Alice's panic. It angered her that he controlled himself as much as he controlled her. She wanted him enraged, wanted him losing that terrifying control so that he would make a mistake, so that he would err and give her the upper hand.
"Fuck you!" she screamed, spittle spraying from her lips onto his cheeks, her teeth gnashing against each other as she bucked and twisted in a futile effort to escape his hold.
Anger flashed behind his blue eyes, only a momentary weakness before he wrenched back the control she hated more than anything. The glimmer of his loss wasn't enough to satisfy her. She wanted the rate of his heart to match hers, wanted his sunkissed and scarred skin to match the fierce red mask of anger she wore.
He wouldn't give her the reaction she sought, she knew that, yet she craved it regardless.
"I've already told you there is no way out. Why do you waste your time trying? It makes no sense."
After brushing away a hot tear from her cheek, he ran the tip of his thumb along her jaw, a smile playing at his lips, widening with every burst of her struggle. When her body stilled, exhausted from the fight she never had the chance to win, he closed his eyes, opening them slowly to stare down at her from beneath thick black lashes.
"I think it's time I tell you something." His eyes scanned down surveying slowly the way her chest rose with erratic breath, the cold blue orbs pausing to focus on the pulse point in her throat. "But not like this. Not in this position. Can I trust you to behave if I let you up?"
Her jaw ticked, her teeth throbbing from how tightly she held them clenched. Her thoughts drifted then to a memory that until that moment had been dormant:
She was eight years old, her sister nine. They'd gone with their father to a convenience store for ice cream on a hot and humid summer day. Upon entering the store, both their young eyes were drawn to a headline on the front page of the local paper in a bin displayed at the front of the store. It was an image of a young woman, her hair long and blonde, her eyes wide with the hope of a bright future.
Beside that photo was another: the same woman, her body broken and beaten, left hanging from raised train tracks that cut through the sky and ran across the four lane highway that led out of town.
Things were different back then. The topic of sex was buried like the devil's sinful secret, but shock and gore, the horror of man's violence was put on display, a warning to the young about the evil that lurked in every shadowed corner.
Her father kneeled down behind them, a hand on the shoulder of each of his girls. His eyes scanned the article, a low whistle escaping his lips. "Well, would you look there. The poor woman made the wrong choice, it seems."
Ripping her eyes from the disturbing image, Alice glanced back at her father, a question written into her raised brows.
Pulling his large hand from her shoulder, he pointed to the text. "If you read there, you'll see she had a choice." Lowering his voice to a bare whisper, he explained, "It says that the girl had a gun pointed to her head in a public setting. The man must have told her to go with him or he'd shoot. Pretty standard stuff with criminals: the warning. Had she fought then, she might have lived, or at least she would have died quickly with a bullet in her head."
Turning, he looked each girl in the eye before continuing forward.
"The woman chose to go with the man. Most likely she was raped and beaten, only the Lord knows how many days that poor woman suffered. And look where she ended up."
He sighed, his head heavy with the weight of the violence staring them in the face. "I'll give you this piece of advice now: if you ever find yourself in her situation, you fight, even if it means you take a bullet for the struggle. Because the quick death will be a hell of a lot easier than whatever that sick bastard will do to you when he gets you away from that crowd and alone."
Alice promised herself then that she would fight, no matter the circumstances, no matter the risk, she would fight. Little did her father know that his words on that humid summer day had been prophetic, spoken to two small girls who would one day become women faced with making that same choice.
Delilah disappeared when she chose to go with whatever monster had taken her from her family and her life.
And, Alice, who’d developed a significant fear of those types of stories after that day, refused to make the same mistake.
If it was her life or the life Max had decided she would live, she would choose a quick death over the endless torture the following days and weeks could deliver.
Her body went limp beneath him, her mind focused on breaking his aggravating self-control.
Locking her eyes with his, she steadied her voice, delivering each word with the strength of her conviction. "Fuck you."
Another flash of anger. Another fleeting moment in which she’d broken through his calm demeanor to reveal the monster inside.
She was expecting rage. She was expecting fire. She was expecting his fist to rain down on her in beating, bone breaking blows.
What she got instead was the taunting, cold touch of his sardonic grin. His lips tilted at the corners. Shadow touched his face, adding an edge to the sharp line of his cheekbones. A strong jaw ticked on one side drawing Alice's attention to the mottled scars.
Gripping one hand into her hair, he pulled her head down tight against the ground. His other hand wrapped over her face, his fingers tightening against her cheeks, irritating the previous injury he'd caused.
"You will learn, Alice."
Max' weight was barely off her before he wrenched her body off the floor. Pain shot through her skull, her neck having snapped back from the force of his pull.
Dragged through the room by her hair, she grabbed his wrist. Her nails dug into his skin, her mouth opened on a scream.
Unfazed, Max tossed her onto a couch, a leg iron locking around her ankle as she reached up to press her hands against the searing pain in her scalp.
Once Alice's feet were secured, Max cuffed her wrists, overpowering her easily.
"If you can't behave on your own, I'll have to correct your behavior. I'd like to show you how."
He shot up onto his feet, pacing for several seconds before turning back towards her.
His low baritone voice was matter of fact. His words more perplexing than his behavior.
"Between the fifteenth and seventeenth centuries, English monarchs had a slight problem. The young prince specifically. You see, no king should be spanked or punished by anyone except for another king. However, the reigning king was often away. So what then do you do with the troublesome boy who would one day inherit the crown?"
Confusion muddied Alice's thoughts, the topic too bizarre.
"Why are you telling me this?" She winced, the movement of her jaw pulling at the raw skin on her scalp.
"Because it has everything to do with why you're going to obey me." Pacing again, he was careful to place the back of his heel against the tip of the other shoe. One after the other: his steps tempered, measured, controlled.
"When the young prince misbehaved, and the king was away, the court attendants had to be creative. How do you punish someone when they were untouchable?"
He looked up, locking his ice cold gaze to hers.
When she didn’t answer, he said, "You use a proxy, Alice, a whipping boy. You find and punish someone so close to the prince that he still feels the pain even when it isn't his own body being abused."
Alice's mouth went dry, her jaw tight, her thoughts flooded by the confusion elicited by his cryptic statement.
Without another word, Max left the room, taking Alice by surprise. A keypad beeped in the distance, the pneumatic hiss of a heavy door whispering to Alice from across the space of the room.
Able to sit, she pulled her body up, her wrists still cuffed in her lap, her ankles bound to the leg irons attached to the foot of the couch.
From her position, she was unable to see through the doorway out of which Max had left, but she was able to hear the first notes of a strangled cry.
Forcing her focus outward, she listened. Each heavy, booted step was accompanied by the sound of something being dragged over the floor. A whimper, a moan - whispered pleas that mimicked the fear she felt inside.
The sounds of the steps grew louder, more pronounced as Max approached the room, a woman's cries piercing the quiet stillness of the house.
Alice's eyes widened, her head shaking a silent plea that what she saw wasn’t real.
Entering the room, Max dragged a body behind him, moving to the center of the space before pulling the struggling woman up to her knees.
Time slowed.
The room spun.
Alice felt dizzy staring down at the woman at her feet.
"Do you recognize her, Alice? Do you understand now?"
His words were laced with venom, evil creeping out with each syllable spoken. In his assured tone was the knowledge that he'd won whatever game he was playing.
Alice knew the game didn't end here. It couldn't be that simple, that merciful.
No. This game was just beginning.
"Do you recognize her?" His voice was demanding, cynical, disturbed. It was the voice of a predator, of a man on edge, bloated with a sense of determination and power.
Alice flinched at the booming sound, the echo of pure menace that buoyed throughout the room.
Her breath held in her lungs, she studied the woman in front of her, her eyes looking past the sack that covered the woman's head, down farther to where the ends of long, stringy blonde hair fell limp beneath the dirty brown sack. Trembling at the feet of a monster, the woman was dressed identical to Alice, her body a touch thicker, her curves more feminine.
It was a body that Alice knew well.
Tears burned at the back of Alice's eyes, understanding slipping into the confusion, recognition stealing what little breath remained in her lungs.
She looked up at Max, locking terrified eyes to his, her voice stolen by the realization of what he planned to do.
A sick smile creased his sculpted lips, his gaze burning with anticipation and pride.
"Do you know why the whipping boy worked so well to control the prince, Alice?” A menacing grin touched by a soft voice. “Do you?"
The tears she'd fought fell down her cheeks; thick and hot they were ice cold by the time they reached and rolled along her trembling jaw.
"The whipping boy worked because he'd been raised with the prince. Because of their shared love and affection, each injury the boy received hurt the prince as well. Just as each injury this woman receives will be yours."
The room grew quiet, the weight of the situation crushing the rebellion remaining in Alice.
"Fight me again, and I'll hurt you. Forget to obey, dishonor me in any way, and this woman will pay your price."
He smiled, the gleam of his white teeth bright beneath the lights of the room.
"I promised I wouldn't harm you, Alice. But never forget I warned you that I do have ways to make you hurt."
12:30 p.m.
Gray walls.
Black table.
Plastic, fake red roses.
Everything in place.
"Alice? ... Ms. Beaumont? ... Alice Beaumont ..."
"Yes, Doctor."
"It's your time. Are you ready?"
Nodding her head, she rose from her chair in the waiting room, the soft notes of classical music drawing her attention to a speaker at the top of the wall. She'd not noticed it before, nor the paintings of different landscapes that sat at equally spaced intervals beneath it. Black frames, simple so as not to distract from the beauty of the paintings themselves.
Five steps across the room, three steps over the soft, patterned carpet. Four cushions. A white throw draped loosely over the armrest.
Alice sat down.
Crossing one leg over the other, the doctor pulled his notepad from the side table to his left, placing it in his lap before clicking his pen and scribbling out a note Alice couldn't see.
His gaze shot up, his eyes hidden behind the shadow of the low lit room, the metallic frames of his glasses flashing beneath the scant bit of light that touched them.
"How are you today?"
"I think I'm better," she answered, curling her legs up against her body, her arms wrapping around her bent knees. "I'm tired. I feel empty.” As an afterthought, she said, “But I think that's good."
The doctor regarded her closely, the clock ticking off the seconds he waited before asking, "Why would being empty be good?"
