by Leigh Tudor
The walls were a gridwork of padded squares. She turned to the right and spotted a toilet without toilet paper and pushed to the side was the meager blanket and coarse pillow. Nothing to lend her comfort.
She turned her body to see what was behind her and spotted the camera mounted at least eight feet high. Too far for her to reach but angled in a way she would be unable to hide from its lens unless directly beneath it.
She scooted to that very spot, the sole act of defiance affording her some small sense of control. It wasn’t much, but it was something. And she sat there waiting and yelling, insisting she see her sisters.
And here she was, day four or maybe five, with no human contact besides a new orderly she had never seen before, bringing her water in the morning and then again in the evening. She shamefully lapped it up, like a cornered dog looking for any type of sustenance.
He ignored her questions about the whereabouts of Mara and Charlotte, refused to even look at her, and then walked out the door, the clicking sound of the door closing bringing her to a new level of desolation.
To the orderly, she was nothing more than a task to cross off for the day.
She forced herself to stand, mindful she was naked from the waist down, and slowly dragged herself to the door and began pounding, yelling through the barred window.
“Mara!” she screamed, although her voice was weakening. “Charlotte!” She pounded again. “What have you done with my sisters?”
Her head jerked back as she heard the biometric device make its ever-fateful pinging noise. She scrambled to the corner of the room, as it was past feeding time.
Maybe it was Halstead.
To her disappointment, in walked Bancroft, and drowning out the light from the hallway, with his beefy arms crossed over his chest dressed in white scrubs, was the menacing orderly who’d roughed her up and shoved her in the straitjacket.
The skinny orderly who brought her water refused to look at her as if she were a crazed lunatic, but this one kept his soulless eyes trained on her.
Naked from the waist down, she didn’t like the way he looked at her, like she was his next meal.
Bancroft walked languidly toward her, looking down at her with a bored blink and heavy sigh. He bent down on one knee next to where she was sitting underneath the camera.
She refused to cower from him. She needed to stay strong and determined if she was ever to see Mara and Charlotte again.
“So obstinate. So disobedient. You are trying my patience, Miss Ava.”
“Where are my sisters?” Her voice cracked and she hated herself for sounding weak.
“They are exactly where they should be, aiding Dr. Halstead by furthering scientific discoveries.”
“I want to see them. Now.” She swapped fear for tenacity.
“Dr. Halstead has given me orders to leave you in this room until you agree to comply and cease harassing the staff and orderlies.”
Anger diffused her body. The old man who had promised to protect her and her sisters was nothing less than a monster.
“I have a message for dear old dad.”
Surprising herself as much as Bancroft, she spit in his face.
His anger turned palpable, his visage morphing into a mottled red with veins bulging from his neck. She instinctively backed up against the wall.
He slowly pulled a neat, white, square handkerchief from his back pocket and slowly wiped the spittle as he chuckled without a bit of humor. “That will cost you dearly, Miss Ava.”
He stood, glaring down at her, and motioned to the goon at the door.
“Milo,” he barked as the orderly in starched white scrubs moved toward them. “I’m going to step into the hallway and disable the room’s camera. It will take the security guards ten minutes to troubleshoot the alert and re-enable the feed. You have ten minutes to do whatever it takes to convince Miss Ava that behavior modification is in her best interest.”
He moved toward the door, a disturbing half-smile dominating his face as his eyes bore into Ava’s. “Anything.”
Ava had begun her combat training at fifteen, but a couple of years of Krav Maga wouldn’t make up for being starved and bound by a straitjacket. Despite this, she wrenched helplessly at her arms, completely immobile and ineffective.
The instant the camera’s alert began to resonate throughout the room and hallway, meaty fingers grabbed her by her hair, turned her to face the corner and slammed her forehead into the wall. He let go and she fell to her knees. She leaned against the cornered walls for support.
Dazed, she gasped as he grabbed her by the hair again, and turned her around to face him. Reading his next move, she reacted by the only means available to her, the use of her legs. As he moved one leg forward, placing his weight on it, she easily swept his back leg, sending his lumberjack-sized body crashing onto the floor.
Her Krav Maga instructor’s words echoed in her befuddled head: “The bigger they are, the harder they fall.”
But he wasn’t staying down.
What her instructor had failed to teach her, was how to defend herself when the assailant three times her size got back up, while she still modeled the latest in upper-body restraint apparel.
She kicked and flailed, but was no match against his dead eyes and brute strength. He grabbed the straps at the back of her jacket and flipped her onto her stomach as if she weighed no more than a bag of chips.
Anchored to the floor between steroid-enhanced thighs, depleted of strength and running out of options, she forced herself to think. What was her next move? What could she leverage?
She could hear him fumbling with the ties on his scrubs and gasped at the pain of him yanking her up and onto her knees. One side of her face lay flat against the ice-cold tile floor, so she tried to move her weight to her shoulder but couldn’t find her balance.
She squeezed her eyes shut and thought she might vomit when she felt him poking and prodding against her.
Realizing her fate and lack of options, she rested her cheek onto the floor and let the tears flow.
And then fingers bore into one hip while his other hand latched onto the ties at her back and she screamed at the indescribable pain.
Unable to move her arms, she was as useless as a trussed puppet as he violently yanked her back by the knot, keeping her hands restrained and immobile. She tried rolling her weight to her forehead which only earned her more pain.
With each thrust she screamed and swore he was ripping her from the inside out as the tears flowed and the pain gripped her over and over.
He didn’t make a sound, save a hefty grunt with each thrust.
Couldn’t Bancroft hear her? How could he not know what was happening to her?
Reality was a cold bitch as she realized that he had to know and didn’t care.
She had no one.
There was no one to protect her.
She felt a bloody slickness between her legs that ebbed some of the pain but did little to stem the mortification of being unprotected and powerless.
She winched her eyes shut and willed herself to breathe in and out, despite the repetitive onslaught of flesh against wounded flesh.
And then, forty-three.
Her eyes flew open and closed just as quickly, as in her mind’s eye she could suddenly see the number forty-three: A prime number that, since the accident, she’d found inexplicably reverent and soothing.
Ava couldn’t explain why she felt this way about a certain prime number, but forty-three had become a safe beacon in a stormy sky keeping her safe and providing her focus outside of herself when she was scared or couldn’t sleep.
Then, just as suddenly, her mind shifted, and she began to draft spheres based solely on primes and their elegant patterns. Shifting again, she began reciting prime numbers, almost as a mantra, and could feel herself further disconnecting from her body.
Her ever-present prime numbers held strong.
So soothing and rare.
Like faithful sentinels protect
ing her.
And as if her mind were an old-time television switching channels, she could see herself sitting between her parents on their sectional sofa, eating popcorn while watching Pixar movies. Mara was playing with a fluffy stuffed rabbit as Charlotte slept in her makeshift bed, which was no more than an overstuffed chair, her small body held captive behind strategically placed throw pillows.
Her mother laughed at a particularly absurd part of the cartoon while her dad did his best to hold back a chuckle, asking if there was a chase scene he could look forward to.
Between her slight body weight and her assailants frantically increased effort, her head met the corner of the wall. And after a few head-splitting thrusts she finally found . . . silence.
Ava winced at the pain as she craned her neck, and stretched her lower limbs. Pain so evenly distributed she couldn’t pinpoint exactly where she hurt the most.
She tried to move her legs underneath her to sit up, and gasped, then it all came back. Turning her face to the floor, she sobbed.
Just as quickly she cursed herself for the tears spilling down her cheeks. An unnecessary waste of resources.
She tried getting past the pain, knowing she should stand and move her body around the room in order to warm herself, but it was a little late for that revelation, considering her current condition.
Hanging her head and closing her eyes, she knew she’d arrived at the moment she’d been avoiding.
Leveraging the use of the corner wall, she inched her way up until she was standing. Turning her body so she could rest her head against the wall, she took a moment to close her eyes, catch her breath, and find her balance.
She opened them, glanced down and gasped at all the blood. Her blood, dried and running down the padded wall like red-soaked tears. Her hair draped across her face from what must have been a head wound. She turned to see more blood on the floor and then noticed the stickiness between her legs.
Her body trembled uncontrollably, wishing she could reach the metallic blanket, more to cover the blood on her body than to warm herself.
Ava looked up at the glowing green light indicating a now operational camera.
She knew what Halstead wanted and she would give it to him. She would give him the appearance of obedience until she could find a better way. Because the ugly truth was, he held all the power.
* * *
Slowly, she made her way to the center of the room, turned and looked directly into the eye of the camera. “I apologize for my behavior, Dr. Halstead. I promise that, moving forward, you will have my full cooperation.”
Losing her balance from her weakened state, she fell to her knees. She didn’t know what hurt more, the impact of her knees hitting the unforgiving floor or the impact on her pride. Nevertheless, she knew her lack of balance only painted her as more contrite.
Submissive.
It took what felt like two minutes before the door opened and Halstead himself entered the room, pulling her up to standing and holding her steady.
He didn’t care to comment on what looked to be a murder scene before him or her obvious injuries.
Without a smidge of emotion, he said, “Follow me.”
He walked toward the door, but she didn’t move. Couldn’t move. He turned his head toward her with an upturned brow.
“I’m not sure I can walk,” she said, wobbling.
“You will if you want to see your sisters.”
Without waiting for an affirmation, he continued through the door. Adrenaline coursed through her body, and she learned that with the right motivation, she could do anything.
Chapter Thirty-Three
“What science can there be more noble, more excellent, more useful for men, more admirably high and demonstrative, than this of mathematics?”
—Benjamin Franklin
As a scientist, he was a major figure in the American Enlightenment and the history of physics for his discoveries and theories regarding electricity
* * *
Loren pulled into the driveway, her previous state of sexually induced euphoria having been trampled by memories from her past.
She drove past the house into the side drive on the left, admiring the Blue Angel hostas she and Mercy planted a couple weeks ago.
Turning off the engine was much easier than blocking the memories.
She had finally found her sisters that fateful day.
After instructing staff members to wash her down in a nearby shower room and handing her a set of clean scrubs, Halstead had personally led her to Mara’s room, where she lay unconscious and hooked to an IV.
He explained that Mara shared the same blood type as Charlotte, and was to be her standby blood donor, if need be.
He then took her to Charlotte’s room, who was also sedated post-surgery. Dr. Halstead expressed that he was quite eager to discover over time if the surgical lesions performed by Dr. Vielle would garner the same results as they had with Mara.
Loren rubbed her forehead and rested her head on the steering wheel. It wasn’t long before Charlotte’s genius was discovered: She was a musical prodigy and Dr. Halstead couldn’t have been more pleased.
Like a proud father who had just unleashed some pretty hefty revenue potential.
Of course, the doctor pontificated that it was all in the name of science. And that Loren needed to honor the sacrifice made by her sisters in the benevolent quest to further his life’s work.
As if their participation was voluntary, despite being strapped to their hospital beds and sedated.
But she knew who was truly at fault as she reached down to cradle Charlotte’s hand.
She was.
The old man had promised to protect them and she believed him. He had promised to give them a real home, and she convinced her sisters that he was the answer to their prayers.
And they believed her.
But promises were flighty things, made with vigor one day and easily discounted the next. It would serve her well to remember that no one, save her sisters, could be fully trusted. And despite feelings of goodwill toward Madame Garmond and Vlad Petrov, she needed to take their words and intentions with a grain of salt.
Because everyone lied and used and manipulated everyone else.
Loren sighed at the kind reminder that it was better to compartmentalize the past and live in the present. And most importantly, to rely solely on herself.
Now was not the time for maudlin thoughts of the Center. Tonight, she had afforded endless hours of graphic playtime imagery of a certain neighbor who resembled Thor from the Avengers and fucked like that guy in that Gray something . . . something Shades movie Mercy had shown her clips of . . . what was that movie called again?
Loren sat back in her car seat and let down her window to listen to the sound of the male prairie cicadas doing their musical best to attract a mate. She thought of Alec and how she felt magnetically pulled toward him.
Like a touchstone.
Like a prime number.
Like forty-three.
She would never, as long as she lived, forget the way he looked into her eyes while moving inside her. Like she was beautiful and someone special.
She placed her hands on her reddened cheeks and closed her eyes to relive the look in his eyes and the feeling of being swept into something surreal and perfect.
Ah, what would one do without a momentary delusion or two to fall back on?
She would grant herself the luxury of holding onto that delusion for tonight and face reality tomorrow. She’d give herself that much time to dream of a gravelly voice and overly confident strong hands.
Her eyes widened at the sudden sound of piano playing from inside the house. And then there was laughter. Laughter that sounded as if it were coming from a number of people.
She glanced behind her seat, out the back window of the car to see several vehicles parked close to the front of the house that she had failed to notice.
It was a moonless night, so she couldn’t make out the
makes or models of the cars and identify the people inside. A small-town skill that came in handy while living in Wilder but gained her no leverage tonight.
Opening the kitchen door, she blew into her ice-cold hands and admonished herself for forgetting her coat in a mad dash to avoid Alec’s imminent rejection. Her stomach growled and then did a happy dance as she took in the food on the table before her.
There were so many bowls and containers they barely fit onto the small table, one or two sitting precariously close to the edge. Loren moved them toward safety and picked up a plate while sporting a wide smile and huge appetite.
“Ohmigodyouhadsex.” Mercy stood in the doorway with huge eyes, an empty plate in her hands and a spoon in the other.
“Keep it down.” Loren shook her head toward the ceiling and then at Mercy. “People can hear you.”
A saucy grin dominated Mercy’s face. “So, you’re not denying it.” She lowered her voice and set her dirty dishes in the sink. “You had dirty sex with our crotchety neighbor.”
Before Loren could deny, deny, deny . . . Becky Waterman walked in the kitchen and came to an abrupt stop when spotting Loren. “Oh, my,” she said, covering her mouth with her hand.
Loren held her hands out to the side, waving her empty plate around. “What?”
“You got your field plowed.”
Loren lowered her hands, suddenly self-conscious and touched her forehead, wondering if Alec had branded her with a Sharpie while she was basking in post-coital glow.
“No, I didn’t get anything plowed—”
“You did!” Becky said with an unusually low voice as if Loren hadn’t just stated the opposite.
“Oh, yeah, she did,” Mercy confirmed.
Loren grabbed a spoon and began poking at food as opposed to convincing her gleeful accusers. “I . . . I said I didn’t.”
Becky answered for her. “Oh, it’s obvious. You did the dirty with Farmer Ted aka Alec freakin’ Wilder.”