by Bea Paige
Then I kick open the door and drag her into the dark corridor leading to the locked room beyond.
Chapter Ten
Rose - present day
We sit in silence for the remainder of the journey, both of us lost in our own thoughts. As we travel the final couple of miles to the care home where Amber lives, I try to focus on the man I’ve come to know these past few weeks, and not the man he described in his memories. But one thing, more than the cruelty he described, more than his obsession for the impossible, is bothering me and I must know the answer.
Everything hinges on it.
“Was Amber your prisoner, Anton?” I ask abruptly, breaking the silence as though smashing through glass. I feel the shattered edges slicing into my resolve to remain strong.
How I want him to say no.
“Anton?” I press, looking at the side of his face, at the beard that covers the bottom half and the woollen hat pulled tightly over his head leaving only a small section that isn’t hidden away. He stubbornly remains looking out of the window, one foot propped on the seat, his bent arm pressed against his knee.
“We’ll be there soon,” he responds, not bothering to acknowledge my question.
Patrick indicates, turning left onto a side road off the main one leading to a remote village I’d heard about but never visited before. Like most country roads in Cornwall, they’re slim with hedgerows so high you can’t see the surrounding fields, but Patrick doesn’t speed along them like my father used to do. He’s careful.
“Anton, did you keep her locked up?” My mouth goes dry, my tongue thickening beneath the stranglehold he has over me. Despite leaving the window open a crack, I still feel as though I can’t breathe. Inside my demon thrashes, snapping and biting. I hold onto her anger for dear life, oscillating between wanting to unleash her on Anton and trying to calm her into submission. This push and pull with him is both terrifying and electrifying. With Anton there is fear, but also a sick sense of fascination.
His darkness is alluring and that makes me just as fucked up as he is.
“What do you think?” Anton eventually answers, his voice tight.
There’s an inevitability to his tone. Like he regrets what he did, but can’t change it, wouldn’t change his choice even if he were able to.
“I think you locked her up,” I whisper, barely able to hear my own voice above the crashing pulse in my ears.
“Then you’d be correct in that assumption.”
His voice cracks. I hear the guilt within it and the pain, but I’m not sure whether it’s because he broke Amber or whether it’s because he never got what he wanted. Perhaps it’s both.
A roiling sickness rises within me once more. Will that be my fate too? I’ve been there once already, can I do it again with Anton?
No. No fucking way.
The fear I thought I’d got under control years ago starts to creep back in as I remember the darkened cupboard Roman kept me in as punishment for disobeying his orders. I vowed back then to never let another man trap me that way, kept in the dark losing all sense of time, all sense of who I was. In some ways I’m grateful for it, because if Roman hadn’t kept me prisoner, my demon may never have come to life. She’s been protecting me ever since.
Fortunately for me, I’d found a way to get Roman to release me, and I’ll find a way to make sure Anton never feels the need to keep me prisoner, because although I might have been able to live through it once, I’m not so certain I could survive it a second time.
My face must reveal my emotions because I find Anton staring at me, his own features schooled into a blank slate. He’s become unreadable, shutting down his feelings as I try to regain control of my own.
“I told you it wasn’t pretty. I told you before that there is more reason to fear me than Ivan and Erik.”
“How long?” I manage to ask, choking on the cloying atmosphere between us.
Anton pulls off his woollen hat and scrapes a hand through his tousled hair. “Long enough for Amber to fall harder for me. Long enough to lose the girl I found in the meadow that day, and long enough for every last drop of colour to drain from her.”
“Did Ivan know? Did Erik?”
I choose to ignore the statement that Amber fell more in love with Anton despite the fact he locked her up. It’s too close to the bone. Roman kept me prisoner for a time and though I hated him for it then and now, I still loved him. A part of me always will.
It's all so fucking twisted.
Anton shakes his head. “Not until it was over, and even then, I don’t believe Erik knows the full story. I didn’t think Ivan did either, until today.”
“Did no one come looking for Amber? How are you not in jail for kidnap?”
“Wealth can buy a lot of things, Rose. It bought the police, even her parents. Beside my father is a powerful man”
“What?! You’re telling me you paid them off?”
Anton nods sharply. “We live in a fucked up world. Everything has a price.”
“Including her soul, it would seem,” I respond sharply.
“Yes, including that,” Anton responds, not denying it.
We travel for another couple of miles in silence. My head spins from the thoughts whirling around it. So this is the truth behind Anton. He’s a man with an obsession so strong he’s willing to destroy another human being to get it. He allowed a woman to fall for him, expecting love and devotion, when all he gave her in the end was pain and emptiness. He lied to his family, he paid off the authorities and Amber’s parents to hide what he did. All of it in the pursuit to obtain the impossible…
The ability to live a life in colour.
The thing is, he’ll never be able to, not just because it’s a physical impossibility but because he’s incapable of understanding what it means to live without it. To him colour is the key to unlock his cage, to breathe life into a world that is otherwise colourless. But the truth is, it’s the damn cage. Anton might have held Amber prisoner, but he’s the one who’s trapped in a prison of his own making. The damn bars are rainbow coloured.
Half an hour later, Patrick pulls into a winding, tree-lined road, not dissimilar to the one leading up to Browlace Manor. I notice an iron sign as we approach the large, white brick building.
Wuthering Heights – Home for the Mentally Impaired, it says.
“Is that a joke?” I ask, pointing to it.
“The owner is a fan of Emily Bronte.”
“It’s not the best choice of name in my opinion.”
“All of the occupants are either too sedated to care, or too far gone to notice the irony,” Anton responds.
“Which is Amber?” I ask, unclipping my seat belt just as Patrick parks the car.
“Both,” Anton responds dully.
I nod tightly, opening the door and stepping out into the crisp Cornish air. Slamming the door behind me I take in a deep lungful of air, replacing the cloying oxygen I shared with Anton in the car.
“I’ll wait here,” Patrick says through the lowered window.
“Thank you, Patrick. I’m sorry for snapping at you earlier.” I give him a smile, trying to make amends.
“It’s no bother, Miss.” He nods his head with a brief smile, then winds the window back up.
“He likes you. Patrick barely says a word to anyone,” Anton remarks as he walks around the car towards me.
“Perhaps it’s just you he doesn’t speak to?”
Anton laughs. “Probably.”
It’s a light sound and has no business here. I frown, crossing my arms over my chest. Is it right that he can experience happiness when he’s taken that from Amber? Anton scowls as he shoves his hands into his pockets, rocking on his heels. A dark shadow passes over his face and I realise that just because he laughs, smiles, it doesn’t mean he’s happy.
How can he be knowing what he’s done?
“I called ahead whilst you were talking with Ivan. They’re expecting us,” Anton says, turning on his heel and marching u
p to the door. He walks with a confidence that belies the shake in his hand and the tension in his shoulders. When he reaches the front step, he turns to look at me.
“But before I take you to Amber, I want to tell you what happened the day I released her. I want to explain how she became this person you’re about to meet.”
Then he steps into the building, disappearing into the darkened hallway where the ghost of his past awaits us both.
Chapter Eleven
Anton – eighteen months ago
Amber sits on the single bed in the corner of the room, her legs drawn up to her chest and her cheek resting against her knee. She’s been here for almost two weeks.
I’ve kept her locked in this room with no explanation and no promise of release.
The room itself isn’t bad. It’s fitted with comfortable furniture and warm lighting. A small portion of it has been made into a shower room and toilet. It might not be luxurious, but it’s functional. A cosy fire is lit in the hearth, a sheepskin rug thrown across the bare wooden floor in front of it.
She has everything she needs, except what she wants; her freedom and my love.
Ignoring the fact she’s refused to eat the sandwich I brought earlier, I step into the room. It’s past six o’clock, but she wouldn’t know that given there are no windows. These last couple of days Amber’s stopped asking what day it is, what time, and the faraway look in her eyes is even more troubling now the light has gone from behind them.
Guilt twines up my chest, tightening with every intake of breath.
I’m a monster.
Leaning against the wall, I observe Amber for a moment. She glances at me, her sad eyes lingering on my face. She doesn’t beg me to release her, she hasn’t once asked me why I’m keeping her in here, but with every day I have, she’s lost another piece of her soul and with it everything that makes her unique.
Minute after minute, hour after hour, day after day, it’s been leaking from her and I’ve been trying so fucking hard to capture it.
I don’t know where this is going, where it will lead. I’m too afraid to think beyond each day, but something must give and soon.
The police came knocking earlier today. Ms Hadley answered the door. I overheard them questioning whether she’d seen a young lady fitting Amber’s description. In that moment, as the officer questioned her, I’d felt a sense of relief, relief that someone would finally put an end to my fucking madness, my obsession, and free Amber.
I’d stood in the shadows of the entrance hall listening to Ms Hadley denying any knowledge, knowing full well that Amber had been visiting me these last six months. They’d believed her, leaving me free to return to the darkest pits of my soul and to the once vibrant young woman hidden away in the room beyond my studio.
If Ms Hadley knows what I’m doing now, then she hasn’t said. I’m not sure if I’m grateful or not for that. Someone should be stopping this madness because, apparently, I’m incapable.
“You need to eat, Amber,” I say, the gentleness in my voice surprising her, surprising me.
Since the moment I bit her ear and forced her into this room, I’ve not touched her. Not given her anything but the scraps of my attention as I try over and over again to recreate her on canvas. My fingers are blistered, my fucking body aches from the hours repeating the same strokes, trying desperately to make all this torture worth it.
For her, for me.
Outside in my studio is the evidence of my defeat. Dozens of sketch pads filled with images of Amber, not one of them capturing what it is to be her. Several large canvases lay discarded, ripped and torn in frustration.
“Please, Amber, eat something,” I repeat.
She looks up at me, a spark illuminating in her eyes at the compassion she hears. Unlocking her arms from around her knees, Amber twists her body and reaches for the sandwich, taking a small bite.
“Good girl,” I say.
In the corner of the room sits a large canvas taking up most of the space and blocking access to the bathroom. But rather than take position behind it on the stool like I usually do, I choose to sit beside Amber on the bed.
She glances at me with her haunted eyes, her lifeless hair shadowing half her face as she chews slowly on the mouthful of sandwich. I watch her silently as she takes her fill. Only attempting a conversation once she’s eaten it all.
“Thank you,” I say, as she places the plate back on the side table. I realise how empty that sounds the second the words leave my lips, and so does Amber.
“For what? Loving you enough to endure this prison, or not loving myself enough to try and escape?” she responds, her voice croaking from lack of use.
It’s the most she’s said to me in days, and her carefully chosen words are a sucker punch to the gut. A kind of whooshing noise releases from my lips as I recognise the absolute hate she has for herself and the misplaced love she feels for me. I drop my head into my hands unable to look at her.
“Anton?” she questions, tentatively reaching for me.
I feel the coolness of her fingertips resting gently on my back. Despite everything I’ve put her through she’s still willing to comfort me when all I’ve done is hurt her.
And it fucking kills me.
“Don’t do that,” I say, snapping my head up and slapping her hand away. “Don’t be kind. I don’t deserve it.”
“I don’t care. I love you,” she wails, her eyes filling with more tears. “Please, Anton. I’ve done this for you. I’ve given you what you want. Just love me in return.”
She clutches at me, but I push her away. “Stop this, Amber. That’s enough!”
“Anton, please!” she shouts, her voice cracking with emotion.
Standing, I back away from her, watching in horror as she frantically rips off her clothes then slides off the bed, collapsing on the floor.
“I’ll do anything. Keep me here forever, tie me up. Do what you want to me, but please, please just love me. I need you to love me.” She looks up at me, completely naked and utterly vulnerable, and I feel nothing but an empty hollow where my heart should be.
“It isn’t enough. It isn’t working,” I mutter.
I’ve drawn her on canvas, on paper, I’ve sculpted clay with my bare fucking hands. But it doesn’t matter how hard I try. It doesn’t matter how many hours I’ve kept her here desperately trying to rid myself of the shadows that taunt me, I’m still lost to the darkness. I’m still a fucking swathe of smoke.
Colour still evades me.
All I’ve done is choke the life from Amber in my quest for the impossible.
“I’ll do better. I’ll do anything. Just name it, Anton. Please.”
Amber crawls towards me, sobbing now. Tears pour down her face leaving glistening tracks over her pale skin, but all I can do is back away from this creature who is nothing like the girl I met six months ago. She’s broken.
I broke her.
She has nothing left to give, nothing that I want. It’s too late.
“Stop it, Amber!” I shout.
But she doesn’t stop.
She keeps coming, her face a swollen mess of tears. Launching for me, she grabs at my waist then clambers up my body.
“Please, Anton,” she begs, her hands grasping at my top, her eyes wild. Her pain is raw. If it had a sound, it would be deafening.
I look into the deep hollow of her eyes for long moments and see nothing of the girl I knew. She’s gone, she’s bled out in my studio, in this room. She’s lost too much of herself to be as she once was. This isn’t Amber, this isn’t even my muse. This is an empty version that I don’t want anything more to do with.
I want to shake her off me, but I don’t even have the strength to do that.
Something inside breaks and a darkness starts to infect me, I feel it creep in between the cracks of my shattered heart and begin to take shape. It comes to life inside of me. An entity full of bitterness, jealousy and hate.
Everything about this is wrong.
&nbs
p; I’m wrong.
“I love you,” she chokes out.
“The door is unlocked. You should go, Amber. Please,” I beg, giving her one final chance to run.
“No,” she sobs, her glassy eyes showing some of the fire I sensed in her the first time we met.
But it won’t last. I’ll put that out too.
Fuck, why won’t she leave?
“No. I won’t,” she repeats, every word a breath of air I consume.
Out of the corner of my eye I see my paints lined up on the table next to the easel and canvas. Colours that are varying shades of grey, at least to me.
Fucking grey!
A sudden rush of anger explodes inside me.
“GET THE FUCK OUT!” I shout, pushing her forcibly away.
She stumbles back, tears streaming down her cheeks.
“Please…” her voice trembles.
“You want me?! You want this?” I rage, smashing my fists against my chest.
“Yes,” she sobs.
“FUCK!”
Without thinking about my actions or how frightening I appear to be, I pick up a tube of oil paint nearest to me and unscrew the lid, squeezing some into my hand. Discarding the tube, I stride over to Amber.
She raises her arms as if I’m going to hit her.
I’ve never hit a woman in my life. I never fucking will.
It should be enough to make me stop.
I should stop.
But I don’t.
It's too late now.
I grasp hold of Amber’s arm and pull it towards me, smothering her in a colour that I can’t fucking see. Will never see.
Her eyes widen, as my paint covered hand slides up her arm and across her collarbone.
“What fucking colour is it?” I ask.
“Red,” she stutters, her lips wobbling.
“I don’t know what that means!” I rage, storming back to the table to pick up another tube of oil paint. I squeeze it into my palm, and stride back to her.
She waits, her whole body trembling. I take her other hand and pull her arm upwards roughly, wiping paint over her bare skin. In my world of grey, it’s a shade darker than the other I’ve just slashed across her skin. This time I swipe it up her arm and over her right breast.