by RuNyx
“And you know nothing about the Syndicate?”
She denied it.
“Lorenzo Maroni has a weakness outside that you know about?”
Why were they asking her these absurd questions?
“Dante Maroni have anyone in his life outside?” the man asked, leaning closer to her. “Someone we can use against him?”
His brother.
Amara shook her head no, silent, trembling all over, panic, real panic setting in as the man brought the rope closer.
He smiled. “This will be fun.”
And so began the screams.
They had the wrong girl. It didn’t make sense. She was nobody.
Minutes blurred.
Heartbeats blurred.
Questions blurred.
Was it day? Was it night?
Everything blurred but the burn.
Her hands. Her back. Her feet. Everything burned.
And she screamed.
“What do you know about the syndicate?”
Breathe.
“Does Dante Maroni have anyone that can be used against him?”
Focus.
“Is there a shipment you know anything about?”
Live.
“When do the guards take their patrol break at night?”
Survive.
“Should we tell Maroni his little girlfriend is here?”
Scream.
Focus. Breathe. Live. Survive. Scream.
Breathe. Live. Survive. Scream.
Live. Survive. Scream.
Survive. Scream.
Scream.
She was alone.
Somehow, someway, her brain had sent her that message through the fog of pain.
Amara sat in the chair, wrists free but limp, her whole body shaking like a leaf as her skin burned.
She was alone.
And the door was open.
She blinked, barely able to see past the water in her eyes. Everything hurt. Everything was pain.
But she had to survive. She had barely lived her life. She had singing lessons to attend in summer, school to graduate, books to read, places to visit, a boy to kiss, babies to have. Her mother couldn’t lose her. Vin couldn’t mourn her.
She was alive. That was all that mattered. They hadn’t broken her yet.
Gripping the sides of the chair with juddering arms, Amara somehow found the strength inside herself to push up. The burning in her wrist flared and she bit her lip hard to stifle any sound. She couldn’t alert any of them.
Amara stood up, her legs unsteady, the soles of her feet burning with every step she took, circulation agitating the assaulted skin there, leaving prints of blood on the floor. Her eyes went to the open door. They thought her scared enough or weak enough to not try anything. They didn’t know. Fear was sister to desperation. And she was desperate to escape this hell.
With soft steps, stifling every whimper, tears running down her cheeks, hair matted around her face, Amara edged towards the open door cautiously, getting out into some kind of corridor. Looking left, and then right, she headed to the latter, going down a set of stairs, every step feeling like a pit of fire. She breathed through it somehow, her need to escape greater than anything else, and came to an empty office room of some sort with an EXIT door. She heard the men who had abducted her somewhere, watching a game.
Her only goal was to escape.
Spying the door, Amara felt a burst of adrenaline shoot down her body, filling her with energy, and worse, hope. She limped towards the door, panting, and exited into a garage of some kind with shuttered doors. Unlocked shuttered doors.
Desperate to just get away, she made a beeline towards it, only to be suddenly yanked by her hair. Pain exploded in her scalp, a cry leaving her lips as the first man dragged her to the truck in the garage and shoved her over the hood.
“You still got fight in you, bitch?” he spat out against her ear, pressing into her from behind.
Bile rose up her throat, her skin crawling with revulsion.
Amara saw his companions come out into the garage.
“Please, no,” she begged. “Please.”
They laughed.
“Fucking slut,” the man held her down.
Her clothes went first.
And she screamed,
and screamed,
and screamed…
until she couldn’t anymore.
There was a little spider on the floor.
It was pretty too.
Amara lay on her side in the garage, her eyes watching the spider as it tried to climb up the wall. He fell down. It reminded her of that story ma used to tell her, of a king in a cave after a battle, watching the spider climb and fall a hundred times. Or was it a queen? Was it a hundred times, or fifty? This little spider had only climbed up twice, before moving on. Maybe, the stories were wrong.
Itsy, bitsy spider, Amara hummed in her mind.
God, she was tired. She didn’t even hurt anymore. She just wanted to sleep. Her whole body wanted to sleep. Her arms were already asleep. She tried to move them and only twitched her fingers. Why was she staying awake anyway? There was nothing for her to stay awake for.
The little spider returned.
Itsy, bitsy spider, she continued humming, watching with swollen eyes as he took another route, and began his climb again.
She almost smiled, rooting for him to make it to the top.
“Jesus, fuck!”
The sound penetrated from somewhere behind her but Amara didn’t bother focusing on it.
Hands touched her arms, slowly turning her on her back.
Fire flared again in slices down her flesh.
Something covered her.
It smelled nice.
Amara blinked up and saw blue, blue eyes looking down at her. She recognized those eyes from somewhere. It reminded her of clear skies and pretty clouds. She wanted to float there.
“I’m going to lift you up, okay?” the boy spoke quietly, his voice pulling her back to the ground. He had a nice voice. She wanted to wrap herself in it and never leave.
Recognition dawned through the haze in her mind.
The new boy. Tristan. What was he doing there? Or was she hallucinating? Had her mind truly splintered?
Amara opened her mouth to answer him, but something was burning her throat. No sound came out. Panic cleared the haze a little more.
“It’s okay, you’re safe now,” he reassured her. “No one will lay a finger on you. I promise.”
She believed him for some reason. He should have made his promise before though.
“Please,” she somehow rasped out.
He leaned forward to hear her better.
“Don’t…don’t tell…any…one,” she got the words out, barely, through the pain in her throat. Tea. She needed her ma’s hot herbal tea.
The boy simply looked at her for a moment, something powerful in his eyes, before picking her up, careful with the injuries on her back, and placing her on a table. Setting her down gently, he wrapped the jacket, his jacket, more snugly around her.
“You doing okay?” he asked, in a voice so gentle, it made her lips tremble.
Amara shook her head. She didn’t think she’d ever be okay again.
“Hang in there, yeah?” he said softly.
What for, Amara wanted to ask but couldn’t get her throat to cooperate. Tea. She needed tea.
“Dante, I have her,” she heard the boy say and felt herself drifting off suddenly, her lids getting heavier.
She heard more voices but her eyes wouldn’t open.
And for some reason, somehow believing Tristan’s promise that she was safe, Amara let go and fell into blessed oblivion.
She couldn’t move.
Amara blinked her eyes open to an unfamiliar room, déjà-vu hitting her hard, as her heartbeat escalated in panic. The sudden sound of beeping had her looking to the side, to see some kind of monitor with wires, the kind that she’d seen in movies.
Hosp
ital.
She was in the hospital.
Memories assaulted her and she took a deep breath, pushing them back into a vault.
Not now. Not now. Not now.
“Mumu?”
The voice had her eyes flying to see her mother at the door, her eyes wet and swollen, and Amara felt a noise leave her chest. Her mother ran to her, careful of the tubes going in her body, and hugged her tight to her chest, petting her hair like she always did.
Amara broke.
Wailing, her body remembering the pain and her mind remembering the moment it splintered, Amara sobbed as her mother held her, gentling her with kisses to her head, murmuring soft words to her that didn’t make any sense. They didn’t have to. Her mother was there and Amara was safe and loved and that was all that mattered. She could feel her mother crying with her and it was that which made her pull back to really see her. Her green eyes were shimmering with pain for her daughter, her mouth still in a gentle line, her ma looked exhausted and heartbroken and so, so loving.
Amara took a deep breath as her mother wiped her tears with her hand.
“We’ll get through this, Mumu,” her mother told her gently.
She opened her mouth to speak when a throat cleared from the door and a woman her mother’s age, clearly the doctor, entered the room.
“I’m glad to see you’re awake, Amara,” the doctor gave her a gentle smile. “How are you feeling?”
Amara started to speak when the doctor shook her head. “No, don’t speak yet. Just nod or shake your head, okay?”
She felt her mother squeeze her hand. Confused, Amara agreed.
“Do you know what day it is?” the doctor asked.
Amara shook her head.
“It’s January 6th,” the lady informed her.
Amara’s mind went reeling. Her last memory before her abduction had been in December. How? Her confusion must have been evident on her face as the doctor spoke again. “You were taken for over three days. And you’ve been here for two weeks under an induced coma.”
Shock filtered through her system.
“Your body was severely traumatized and needed to begin its healing process,” the doctor went on. “We felt under the circumstances, it would be best for both your mind and body to rest for a bit.”
Amara grit her teeth, processing everything she was being told.
“Your mother mentioned you’ve always had a low pain threshold?”
Amara nodded. She had never realized how low of a threshold it had been until the monsters had her.
The doctor continued with sympathy in her eyes. “That is probably why some of your injuries had such severe reactions. I’m sorry for everything you went through, Amara. But there is more I need to tell you. Is it alright if I continue?”
Amara liked the fact that the doctor asked her the question, giving her a choice. She looked at her mother, sitting strong beside her, and gave the doctor a nod.
“You have some acid burns and cuts on your back, sides, and feet that will more than likely scar,” the doctor went on. “The worst of the scarring will be over your wrists. The good news is that they’re all healing very well. You can have cosmetic surgery down the line to minimize them if you want.”
Amara looked down at her wrists and feet, wrapped in white gauze. She was probably on pain killers since she couldn’t feel anything more than a twinge.
“Amara?” the doctor called, calling her attention back to herself, her eyes even more sympathetic. “You cannot use your voice for at least the next month. Your screaming severely damaged your vocal cords, to the point we had to do surgery. It happens in extremely rare cases but I feel your low pain threshold resulted in that.”
Amara swallowed, panic filling her again as she squeezed her mother’s hand.
“It’s okay, baby,” her mother comforted from the side, her tone telling her she already knew all of this.
She opened her mouth and closed it again.
“You’ll be able to speak again once it’s all healed, don’t worry,” the doctor reassured her. “But it is more than likely that your pitch range will be limited.”
Amara took a deep breath, taking it all in.
The doctor continued. “We also tested you for sexual assault and filed a report, as we have to in cases like this. Police will want to talk to you once you’re ready. But no one outside your mother knows here. Do you want me to inform anyone else?”
No. No, she absolutely didn’t want anyone to know. The shame curled inside her like a snake, and she shook her head vigorously.
The doctor gave a small smile in understanding. “Okay. But I recommend you talk to a therapist about everything. Your body will heal but your mind needs to as well. You’ve been through something traumatic and therapy can genuinely help you. I’ll leave the contact information for someone who specializes in such cases with your mother. Would you consider that?”
She didn’t know, but she nodded nonetheless. The doctor gave her a soft smile and told her to rest, before leaving her with her mother.
She wondered if her mother had reached out to her father about any of it.
Her mother pushed her hair back from her face in a gesture Amara knew in her bones.
“There were a few people here to see you. Vin was outside too,” her mother told her softly. “Do you want me to tell him anything?”
He would already carry the guilt of the incident on his shoulders. He didn’t need to know she’d been violated as well. She shook her head.
Her mother smiled. “I’ll send him in when he’s back, and then you rest, okay?”
She nodded.
“Don’t lose your heart, my baby,” her mother told her, and Amara felt her eyes burn as the meaning of the words finally dawned upon her.
When the door opened a few minutes later, Amara turned her head expecting to see her friend, and instead found a somber, deadly boy with blue eyes standing there, the boy who had saved her. Tristan.
Swallowing, she watched as he entered the room, closing the door behind him, and went to the wall opposite her, maybe to make her feel not crowded. He should have known that after everything he had done for her, she trusted him with her life.
He was dressed in a simple black t-shirt and jeans and as he leaned against the wall, he pushed his hands into the pockets, his eyes considering her quietly.
She wanted to thank him – for coming to look for her, for finding her, for covering her with the jacket off his back, for getting her to safety. She wanted to say so many things to him but couldn’t, so she simply gave him a little smile.
He watched the smile for a moment before speaking, his tone still as gentle as it had been when he found her. “Have the doctors told you what happened?”
That was the most words she’d heard from him. Amara nodded.
“Your mother knows everything?”
She nodded again.
“Are they treating you okay?”
The hospital, he meant. It was almost sweet of him to ask. Amara mutely said yes.
“Good,” he pushed off from the wall, heading to the door.
Amara must have made some kind of noise because he paused with his hand on the knob, and looked at her. She didn’t want anyone to know everything besides her mother. He knew and she pleaded with him silently to reassure her that he’d keep it between them.
“I won’t tell anyone,” he told her softly, before walking out the door.
She trusted that. If he said he would keep her secret, it would go to the grave with him.
Vin had come into her room after her Tristan left, a bandage on his cheek where he’d been cut, and Amara had tried to smile for him. And for the first time, she’d seen her friend break down at her feet, hiccupping ‘I’m sorry’ over and over.
Amara had wanted to tell him it wasn’t his fault, that he had nothing to be sorry about, but had simply settled for squeezing his hand until he had calmed down and told her she was going to heal if it killed him.
She’d almost smiled at that.
Now, alone in the room since visiting hours were over, Amara stared up at the ceiling and tried not to let memories penetrate her mind. It was hard. So hard. She felt filthy, like her skin wasn’t her own anymore, like the guilt and pain and shame she felt for something that wasn’t her fault would never leave her alone. It was hard to ignore the memories, but she tried. Maybe, the doctor was right. Maybe talking to a therapist could help her keep the demons at bay.
The door to the room opened, and Amara kept staring up, waiting for the medication to lull her back to sleep. It was probably just the nurse coming in to check her vitals as she’d been coming every two hours. After a long minute, when she didn’t hear anything, Amara turned her head to the side.
And felt her heart stop.
Dante Maroni sat on the chair in the room, looking absolutely wrecked. His tie was askew, his shirt crushed, his hair in disarray, and his eyes wild. Her breath caught in her chest. She’d never seen him look like this before.
Her heart started to pound and the monitor beeped, matching its rhythm, embarrassingly telling both of them that she was affected by his presence. She didn’t want him to see her like this, not lying in a hospital bed, wounded and broken and not herself. She didn’t even know who ‘herself’ was anymore. It was probably a good thing she couldn’t talk at the moment. She wouldn’t know what to say. Memories of him over the years threaded with the memories of questions she’d been asked about him, over and over again, questions she had refused to answer.
Him kissing the pink-haired girl – does he have anyone that could be used against him?
Him burying her dead body – should we tell him his little girlfriend is here?
Him standing shirtless early morning at his door – does he talk any business with you?
Him holding her arms, asking her what was wrong – does Dante Maroni have a weakness?
Memories after memories, linking, shifting, changing.
Amara focused on his gaze, trying to root herself in the room so she wouldn’t lose herself in her head.