Page 12 of Lost & Found

It was messed up on every level, and I wanted to scream at the girls to fight, to not trust these men. Yes, they’d swooped in like guardian angels and seemed like the real deal, but I’d resigned myself to the fate the Mask had for me long ago.

Relief should have had me asking the men to go faster, to get us away from here. It should have washed over me like a warm blanket, but that sensation was nowhere to be found.

The man, who kept telling me to calm down and that I was safe, had an American accent. Everything happened simultaneously, fast and slow, for me. I sought the other girls’ reactions, hoping that in them I would find answers.

Summer and Winter both were in a daze. Mischa actually screamed into the night at one point, and I cowered in fear, hoping she didn’t call forth her own demise. I was already sitting inside the black car so like the coward I was, I buried my head in my lap and cried.

At one point, she joined us in the car, and pure exhaustion overcame all of us. Not a single moment on the long drive did I believe this was real—that we were being rescued. My brain just couldn’t comprehend it was over. Everything happened quickly after that.

Mischa had one more meltdown, one that kept me awake all night. A female doctor had to give her a shot to calm her down. The same woman would come and try to talk to me later. I refused to answer verbally and shook my head yes or no and only to some of her questions. Fear held me silent, and it would become my new security default.

Once more, I was called from my new room and given the opportunity to say goodbye to Mischa. It was at that point that I allowed myself to feel a small measure of relief. The Mask wouldn’t have allowed it. He would say she would taint me, corrupt me and make me bad like she was. It was why he insisted we never speak to one another.

“Go on ahead,” Owen Taylor directed me.

I quietly entered the room. It was quiet except for the soft sound of her breathing evenly. The lights were dim, soft enough that the worst of her beating was masked. Mischa lay on her stomach across the wide bed, her hair spread like a dark fan against the pillow. Fresh ointment had been rubbed into her back, and a few strips of bandages covered the deeper cuts.

For a minute I just stood there, wide-eyed. Then, without hesitation, I climbed onto the bed beside her, careful not to touch her. Reaching for her, I pushed a stray piece of hair away from her face. Her skin was pale and clean, and I was once more struck with the thought of what was going to happen to her now.

She had no parents to go home to. They were dead, thanks to the Collector.

“Hi, Mischa, it’s me. Isabella. My real name is Isabella Caruso. We’re leaving tomorrow. I’m going…home. It’s over now, topolino.” Mouse.

The word felt strange in my mouth. She didn’t stir, and I swallowed hard as tears filled my eyes.

“Thank you for trying to comfort me. I will never forget you. Not ever. I love you,” I said. The words came out in a rush along with the torrent of tears streaming down my face. I pressed my forehead to hers. “I love you so much. You kept me from breaking. I’m sorry I wasn’t strong enough to give you my name before.”

The smell of antiseptic and clean sheets filled my nose, and my chest ached with everything I hadn’t been allowed to feel over the past two years. The sobs tore through me as my guilt slapped me once more in the face. Try as I might, I couldn’t stop the ugly sounds from emerging and choking the words off.

I pressed my mouth close to her ear, wanting to keep my voice low so that she was the only one who heard me. “Please, forgive me for not being stronger. I’m so…so…sorry.”

Knowing this was the last time I would ever see her again broke me, and I ended up rushing from the room. Flying past the other girls, I barely registered the shocked looks on their faces.

That night was the longest one of my life. I tossed and turned. My mind wasn’t able to shut down. If I had my sketchpad and a pencil, I would have drawn. My thoughts echoed through the chaos of the past two years, shifting different scenarios we’d experienced into random categories in my head.

While ninety-nine percent was pure hell, there were silent moments where, for a brief second, things would seem normal. A giggle from Mischa, a smile on X’s face when we were outside. Hercules.

And thinking about him brought me right back full circle. It was a bitter pill to swallow, knowing that no matter how hard I tried to think positively, I would forever be a prisoner of my own fractured memories.

When morning dawned, I was so exhausted that I fought to keep my eyes open. The same man who carried me out of the castle was going to escort me home. With a heavy heart and no words wanting to form, I followed him blindly to a car.

It was there that I said goodbye to the other girls. Then it was onto a plane for the flight home. Home was nothing but a distant memory. I wasn’t the same girl, and my soul ached as I left pieces of me behind.

The man had given up trying to get me to talk, and I slept most of the way. My refusal to communicate, some confusion about my address, and the man’s unsuccessful attempts at contacting a person in his contact list, had me being taken to the Police station.

The man told me to go inside and give the officers my name. He left me with one final warning, the same one the head guy had given all of us.

“You can’t say anything about the other girls.”

It didn’t make sense, but I’d been so conditioned at this point that I didn’t question it. At least not then. I stepped out of his car, which he’d parked three blocks down. I stood on the sidewalk for a moment before I started walking.

My eyes were fixed on the building I was supposed to go into, and then what? My anxiety rose, but the man who saw me home rolled down his window and told me to go inside, that it would all be okay.

“Yes, Sir,” I muttered and put one foot in front of the other.

Walking those three blocks felt like walking through a different dimension. Rain soaked my clothes, making them cling to me like a cold, wet reminder of everything I’d been through. I shivered, but it wasn’t the chill of the night.

What was I supposed to say? They would ask, surely. My heart raced as I thought about talking. It made me break out in a sweat. The building loomed ahead. Charing Cross Police Station was open twenty-four hours a day. It was late, after ten p.m.