Lost Petal

by Linnea May

  The emptiness she’s experiencing must be frightening enough.

  I moved closer to the screen when I noticed her lips moving. The microphone didn’t depict any sounds, so she was either whispering in a volume that was too low or not saying a word at all, despite the looks of it.

  I needed more. I needed to see her.

  That’s why I switched on the light earlier than planned. And her reaction to it was everything I could hope for, displaying the full extent of her vulnerability, her anxiety, her helplessness. She curled up to the side, hiding her face underneath her arm, and her beautiful body trembled as if the light were hurting her.

  I felt torn about seeing her like this. It’s my intention to scare her, to hurt her, to break her just to make her whole again, but that doesn’t mean I’m not empathetic to her struggle.

  Doubts keep creeping up on me, no matter how much I push them aside. I wonder if they will ever be strong enough to make me put an end to this, to set her free and back into the life I took from her.

  After all, she’s not anybody.

  It’s her.

  My girl.

  I always knew she was mine. But I never thought I’d be allowed to own her the way I need to own her. I thought life played a cruel joke on me when it washed her up at my door step.

  I watched her sleep for hours, observing every twitch as I waited for her to wake up.

  Just a few moments passed before she demonstrated the determination and strength that I know she possesses. She took a visibly deep breath and sat up, her eyes scanning the room, searching for something that’s not there: a way out. When she tried to get up on her feet, I knew it was too soon and too quickly to succeed. I knew it before I saw her sinking down to the floor when her legs gave out.

  But I didn’t expect her to recover that quickly.

  She’s standing now, facing the door, but not dumb enough to cause the ruckus other people would feel obliged to. There’s a half-assed attempt at hammering against the sturdy wood, but she gives up on it rather quickly, rubbing her small fist while she glares at the door with furious desperation.

  Her shoulders sink, signaling defeat.

  “Hello?”

  Just one word, spoken softly and riddled with doubt, showing that she knows how little impact it will have. She waits for a moment as the word echoes against the walls inside her cold cell.

  Other people would freak out; they would scream and waste all their strength to violate the only door in the room. But she does no such thing.

  Instead, she retreats to the only place that can serve her now: her mind. My shoulders tense up when I see her closing her eyes, lowering her chin as she shuts herself away from any external impression.

  She shouldn’t be doing this. It’s dangerous, possibly hurtful. The walls erected inside of her are ready to withstand any penetration she might muster at this moment, and attacking them will only lead to agony.

  It doesn’t take long for her to realize that. Her body starts swaying as she starts grimacing, turning sideways so I can no longer see her face. I hate that and wish I had installed more than just this one camera in her room. I need to see everything of her, especially now when she’s about to do something that’s potentially dangerous.

  Her swaying turns into trembling, and while I can no longer see her face, I can see her little hands as they turn into fists, speaking of the battle she’s enduring.

  Stop it, little girl. Stop it right now.

  But she doesn’t. Her shoulders move up and down too quickly and with too much force when she starts breathing heavily, coming close to hyperventilating. This erratic heaving is only the beginning and could turn into so much more, something that could lead to her harming herself.

  Shit. I can’t let this happen.

  I need to stop this.

  Chapter 3

  Petal

  Instinct makes me jump away from the door, almost losing my balance as I shy away from the unexpected sound. My stance changes just like my focus does, now latching onto the door with fearful tension instead of cautious hope. I’ve been awake for long enough to no longer expect any benevolence coming from the other side.

  That’s why it’s an odd relief to realize the door is not being opened, it’s just the hatch. Blinding bright light breaks in, causing me to cover my eyes while I take another step back. The light is much brighter than the dim light bulb inside the room. It’s so piercingly bright that it literally hurts, stinging like a whiplash against my face.

  For a few moments, I just stand there, carefully risking glances through my protective fingers as I try to figure out what’s going on. Someone is moving on the other side of the door. I can tell by the shadows cast into the room, interrupting the strong beam of light in alternating places as the person moves. I try to catch glimpses of who that person could be by peeking through narrow eyes, fighting the pain the blinding light is causing me. But it’s to no avail, as the light is too strong and the shadows too vague to tell me anything. It could be a man, a woman, a child even.

  “Hello?”

  Apparently, this one single word is all I can muster when it comes to verbalization in my current state. At least now there’s a clear recipient for my single-word question. A listener who doesn’t deign me with a reply. I’m faced with nothing but strained silence as I freeze in my pose, even holding my breath as I listen for a response that never comes.

  I swallow dryly, wetting my lips before I gather the courage for a more elaborate question.

  “Who’s there?”

  Again, I wait. I wait for anything, a breath, a whisper, a threat. Just a voice that would give me a clue about who I’m dealing with.

  But I get nothing. I lower my hand, still squinting as my eyes continue to struggle with the harsh light streaming through the hatch. I can see nothing but a dark outline at the corner, most likely a head. There’s someone standing, or kneeling, at the other side of that door, looking at me, observing me, and locking me into place with his intense gaze.

  His? Do I even know it’s a man? I have no way of being sure, but something tells me it must be a man. Because whoever it is, the person looking at me from the outside is not a nice person, not a gentle creature who wants to help me. It’s a bad person, a bad man.

  But why doesn’t he speak with me? Why does he just look at me like that? Am I supposed to be doing anything? Is he waiting for something to happen? How should I know what I’m supposed to do if he’s not talking to me?

  “Please,” I utter, unsure where to go with my plea. “Please talk to me.”

  But again, I’m not deigned with any sort of reply. The quiet staring continues, holding me in a tight grip.

  I reciprocate the gaze, unsure whether I’m actually looking at the person’s eyes, because I’m still blinded by the odd spotlight that shines with such glistening force that I’m sure its only purpose is to confuse me.

  I don’t know what to do. I don’t know what to ask, what else to do to evoke any kind of response from the other side of the door. Clearly, all I have done so far didn’t do the trick. It doesn’t seem like the mysterious person has any intention of speaking with me or interacting in any way. Maybe he’s just here to check on me? To see whether I’m still alive?

  Is that what this is about? Am I supposed to be dead? Are they worried that I’m awake?

  But why would anyone bring me down here to die? Why not just kill me and bury or burn my body?

  Another taste of panic mixes with my confusion as I’m faced with these uncomfortable thoughts. They just jump at me, coming from God-knows-what fucked-up corner of my disoriented mind. I can’t help it.

  But how can I blame myself? I have no idea who I am or how I got here. All I know is that I’m locked in here with nothing but a leather-button-tufted bench to lean on and a white nightgown to protect myself against the cold.

  “Please,” I repeat, my lower lip trembling as I push away another wave of emerging tears. “Please, talk to me...”

&
nbsp; I don’t even expect a reply at this point. For all I know, I could be standing here for the rest of my life, scared and confused, while an unrecognizable stranger watches me from the outside, possibly relishing in my tortured appearance. Time has lost all meaning to me, because there’s no change that indicates any passing of time. I could have been awake for hours, or minutes, or just a few seconds. How long has it been since the hatch has been opened? Since that person appeared? How long have I been standing here, wondering?

  How long until the first word reaches my troubled ears?

  Despite my tense waiting, I’m not ready when it finally happens.

  Just one word, spoken in a soft but unyielding tone, and by a voice so deep it sends shivers down my spine.

  “Kneel.”

  Chapter 4

  J

  And now I wait.

  I wait to see how long it takes her to obey. It’s not a question of if she will obey, just a matter of when. I can see it in the way her face derails when she’s faced with my demand, the first word I directed toward her since she woke up.

  To her, it may seem like the very first word altogether.

  She’s not shocked or appalled. There’s no fury written across her pretty expression, but there is an instant urge to comply. She wants something. She wants answers, a sense of clarity so she can begin to understand what’s happening to her.

  And for that, she’s ready to do almost anything; she’s eager to please.

  Almost, that is.

  She squints at me, trying to figure out where the order came from, but I know she can’t see me. It’s no coincidence the light in this hallway is as bright as a spotlight, standing in stark contrast to the dim illumination inside her room. She can’t see more than my outline, framed by blazing light that is set high enough to blind her. She can’t see my face because I don’t want her to see it.

  Not yet.

  “Kneel,” I repeat my command. “Now.”

  She flinches at my voice as if I’d hit her, taking a small step back and curling her little hands into fists. There’s no indignation in her face, no sign that tells me she’s disgusted at the idea of following an order without knowing who it’s coming from. I can tell that her battle is not that of an ordinary girl, a girl who has been taught all her life to stand up for herself, someone who has been told to be strong and make her own decisions.

  She’s not that kind of girl, and she never was.

  But that can change.

  With my guidance, she’ll grow like she never has before.

  Another moment passes, filled with an audible inhale from her when she finally decides do as she’s told. She moves carefully as she bends her knees and slowly finds her way to the floor. I never told her to do anything other than to go down on her knees, so it must be a wonderfully natural instinct that makes her place her hands on her thighs with her palms up, as if she were trying to properly present herself in front of me.

  She looks up, seeking eyes she cannot find as she silently begs for my approval.

  What a fucking good girl she is.

  But I’m not going to tell her that just now.

  Instead, I hiss another demand at her, “Stay,” before I close the hatch and take a step back to unlock the door.

  I make sure to be prepared, despite her apparent obedience. She could still jump up on her feet and try to fight me as soon as I step through the door, throw her little fists at me, or scream her head off while she digs her nails into my skin. Even a split second could be enough to let her turn into a furious animal, unleashing her wild fear upon me.

  But nothing of the sort happens.

  She’s still kneeling at the exact same spot, a little more than five feet away from the door, her hands still resting on her upper thighs in an almost ceremonial gesture. Close to perfection.

  The only thing that doesn’t align with my wishes is her face. Her gaze is not lowered, not resting in her lap as she awaits her orders, but latched onto me, hope and fear flickering alike in her wide eyes as she stares up at me.

  She’s not saying a word and just watches as I close the door behind myself, taking small and controlled steps as I approach her. Her upper body sways away from me, but her eyes remain locked onto mine, never yielding. Her lower lip drops when I come to a halt right in front of her, making it appear as if she were gawking at something astonishing.

  I like that look on her. A lot.

  No words escape her, no further questions, no begging. She’s stunned, just busy staring up at me while her lips start to quiver.

  I’m not surprised to find her dumbfounded like this. She’s always been a shy one, and her current state probably makes it hard to verbalize her mushy thoughts. She hasn’t been up for long, and it’s apparent from her empty gaze that her mind is still fogged and too cloudy for any kind of coherence.

  “You have nothing to worry about,” I tell her, starting our conversation with a lie.

  A line appears between her eyebrows, but she remains quiet as a mouse.

  While I welcome her calm demeanor and prefer it to a hysterical outburst, I need to find a way to help her break out of this stunned shell that prohibits her from speaking at all. A nudge, that’s all she needs.

  A little encouragement, bound by rules.

  “I know you must be confused and scared,” I whisper, hunkering down in front of her, so we’re almost on the same eye level. “And you must have many, many questions. A lot of questions I won’t answer.”

  Disappointment flutters across her pretty face and she takes a sharp breath as if she were about to talk back.

  But I make sure to prevent that from happening. I raise my hand in front of her face, beckoning her to remain quiet, because I’m not finished.

  “But I’m not an asshole,” I add, lowering my hand. “And to prove that to you, I’ll make you an offer.”

  Her eyes flicker with interest and she presses her lips together in anticipation while she awaits my proposition.

  I revel in her focused attention for a few more moments before I let her in on my thoughts. “One question. You’re allowed to ask one question. And I promise to give you an honest answer.”

  Her eyes widen, and for a moment I’m not sure whether she’s shocked or happy.

  I also don’t miss the quick glance she throws at the door behind my back, probably wondering whether it’s locked and whether she has a chance to flee if she only gets up on her feet fast enough.

  I’d love to see her try.

  Her lips move, as if she’s tasting the words before she dares saying them. I accommodated her wish to a degree, but I still presented her with a tough choice to make. Choosing only one question when you’re tortured by so many. I know I’m not exactly being fair to her. But this is not about being fair. Not at all.

  She takes her time in picking just one of the many puzzles that occupy her mind. And I’m not disappointed when she finally parts her lips to phrase her well-thought-out question. It’s a simple one in wording, but the most profound she could ask.

  “Who am I?”

  Chapter 5

  Petal

  I hold my breath as I wait for his response, studying the face of the most beautiful man I’ve ever seen. He’s tall, very tall, and broad-shouldered, which makes him appear even more intimidating than his height alone does. Dark hazel eyes are set beneath strong brows that slope downward in a serious expression, matching the black color of his hair, and providing him with an exotic flavor.

  His facial features are so symmetrical and perfect that it almost angers me. No one should be this handsome. No one. It’s the kind of beauty that stops you in your tracks, forcing your gaze to lock onto this surreal artistry in a pointless search for imperfections. There are none. Even his strong and defined jaw lacks flaws, curving gracefully around his slender face, clean-shaven and without the hint of a shadow.

  He’s wearing a black shirt, the rolled-up sleeves revealing the strength of his arms as he buries his hands inside his
black suit pants pockets.

  Thin lines cross the right side of his face when he smirks at me.

  He promised an honest answer. One question, one honest answer. It should be as simple as that.

  That’s why my heart sinks when he deigns me with a reply that doesn’t feel like it even comes close to satisfaction.

  “You’re Petal.”

  That’s all he says. A self-evident tone laces his words, accompanied by an implicit smile as he lifts his hand to touch my face. I jerk away from his caress, disgust painting a grimace on my face.

  Is he fucking serious right now? What kind of answer is that?

  “Is that it?” I probe, not nearly sounding as angry as I feel. “You promised me an honest response.”

  He nods, the tip of his index finger tracing the outline of my jaw, ignoring my apparent dismay at his gesture. “And that’s what I gave you, Petal.”

  I shake my head, freeing myself from his unwanted intrusion.

  “That’s not my name,” I argue. “That’s not anybody’s name.”

  “Yes. It’s yours. You’re Petal. My Petal.”

  The way he enunciates his words sends cold shivers down my spine. It’s frightening and oddly titillating at the same time.

  But neither of those emotions wins over the most dominant concern.

  “Why are you doing this to me?” I ask with a quavering voice. “Why am I locked here? Why do I not remember anything? Why did you not—”

  “Hush,” he cuts me off, placing his index finger on my lips to stop my babbling. “One question we said. Remember?”