Page 32 of Grace

That’s what he kept whispering in my ear when I pretended to sleep. And when he traced my side with his fingers and inhaled the scent of my hair deeply, it took all my strength not to tremble.

Hot tears flooded my eyes, my heart beat against my chest, and a silent scream burned in my throat. These were the moments when I felt too weak and vulnerable to look into his eyes.

Still, I usually just sat on the corner of my bed, watching him. His presence, his posture, and his eyes had a completely different effect on me. I felt as if I were trapped in a room with a sleeping monster, waiting for something. When I looked him in the eyes, I remembered our kiss, the night he walked me home, the moments in the van, and I didn’t understand what had happened to the boy who had stolen a kiss from me. Maybe he had never existed. Maybe I had seen him through a fog and had feelings for him… because I wasn’t indifferent toward him.

I liked his smile, his sharp, strict face, his cool, dark eyes, his deep voice, and his mysterious air. His aura—hinting at danger, full of temptation—pulled me in like a magnet. However, when he kidnapped me, these naïve, childish feelings burned away—no rose-colored glasses anymore. Put simply, everything I had once liked about him revolted me.

What I hated most about him was that he never hurt me. Never laid a hand on me or raised his voice. He was always calm and even-tempered, even when I once slammed my scrambled eggs into his face. He only looked at me with a dark, strict expression. My heart raced, and I thought he would hit me—but he didn’t. All it took was that look he gave me to never do that again. Even though I tossed the food he had cooked me in his face, he just went back to the kitchen and got me another plate. He put it in front of me, and in that moment, his kindness almost made me cry.

“Why?” I asked him, sobbing.

He didn’t reply. My tears fell into my eggs. I wolfed down the warm, delicious meal with the fresh, soft bread. I was hungry, exhausted, and completely lost—and confused by the isolation and his behavior. I really missed my freedom and family.

In addition, I had to endure that he was there with me when I was bathing or sitting on the toilet. It was hard to overcome my modesty. Still, I didn’t understand why he was watching me while I was washing—whenever I scanned the bathroom or the open-plan kitchen, I never saw anything I could use.

November.

The cold grew more and more unbearable down there, underground. Chase got me a thicker blanket and a heater, but the cold seeping from the walls still made it feel like I was in the Arctic, in a tent with no heat. I got sick. I had a high fever that no medicine could bring down. I suffered for days, crying for my mom. My limbs hurt as if an invisible force were trying to tear them from my body.

Chase stayed beside me, caring for me, staying awake—even though I told him to leave me the hell alone. He was persistent. And when at a certain point my physical suffering caused him too much emotional pain, he stormed out.

When he got home, he burst into my room, bringing the cold, fresh air from outside with him. He wasted no time: he ripped the blanket off me—and my pants. I was so sick I didn’t have the strength to protest.

He took something in his mouth, then a thick liquid splashed through the air, and I felt a sharp sting above my butt. The injection site swelled, and my skin itched, but the next day I felt much better. My fever subsided and didn’t return, my limbs no longer hurt, and my appetite came back.

I don’t know what kind of medicine had been in that vial—capable of healing me overnight—but I was sure he hadn’t bought it at a pharmacy.

So, the thing I hated most about him was that he never hurt me.

Until the night that made me change my mind forever.

That night, a different person came through that door. Chase looked like a lunatic: his face cold and emotionless, his eyes cold and confused.

My survival instinct kicked in. I felt that the man in the room with me was not the man who had kissed me first, or the one who had cared for me when I was sick.

I jumped out of bed and fled into the corner of the room.

Chase started walking toward me.

“Chase, please, don’t!”

I raised my arms in front of me and flailed weakly, my body numb with fear. Chase grabbed me and lifted me up. I kicked wildly, my legs kicking in the air, without success. He tossed me onto the bed with a quick, effortless movement. My body bounced on the spring mattress. My hair stuck to my wet face. I sobbed with my mouth open.

“Chase, I don’t want this! Please, don’t!”

He took off his T-shirt, pushed his pants down, and moved his body over mine. I kept hitting his chest weakly, and when he completely overpowered me, I bit into his shoulder. Warm, metallic-tasting blood filled my mouth. Dark drops ran down his arm. He grabbed my hair and yanked my head back. His muscular legs pinned mine, and he raised my arms above my head, holding them in place.

“Please, don’t!” I tried to wriggle free… And his fist slammed in my head, making my cheekbone crack and my head swim. And making me lose faith in him.

He grabbed my jaw with strong fingers and forced my mouth open.

I gasped for breath, my heart racing, my body slick with sweat.

“If you don’t stop this nonsense, I’ll rip out your tongue!” he shouted. His thick, warm saliva splashed across my face, eyes, and lips.

“No, please!” I begged, crying, trembling, broken.

I don’t remember when he got the dental pliers in his hand. He caught one of my molars with them. I made inarticulate sounds—babbling nonsense that yearned for freedom and wanted to avoid pain. In that moment, I wouldn’t even have cared if he had raped me. But he didn’t. His eyes were a dark whirlpool of wildness and confusion. A lock of his hair hung in front of his sweat-soaked forehead.