smelled like. Knew what his skin felt like against hers, just not in the ways she wished. Not in the ways that would erase the memories still crackling on the edge of her subconscious.
It was always worse when Smith was gone, as if his strength was recognized even when she was asleep. Making her mind keep the monsters at bay. With him gone, and only his pillow to keep her company, she closed her eyes and practiced breathing.
Sleep . Don’t dream. Don’t think about it.
Don’t think about it.
Don’t even think -
* * *
It was dark behind her eyes, and the darkness got smaller and smaller until her shoulders were pressed against boxes. Old, stale clothes brushed her face and shoulders, and then panic took hold inside her.
There was rustling on the other side of the door that formed in the darkness, narrow strips of light framing the edges, and she scrambled for the doorknob, scratching at the wood. There were tears on her cheeks. Hot and wet. Her voice came out weak as she begged, “Please, please don’t!”
The hard thump of furniture being moved against the door made her cry harder, her hand twisting the knob, uselessly throwing her full weight at the door as if it mattered. Then that voice, Steve’s voice , was on the other side and she threw herself away from it like it might burn her. “You fucking know better, Camille. If you’re nice to us, we’re nice to you. You think about whether or not you want to behave.”
“NO!” She screamed, and the panic was making her chest tighter. There wasn’t enough air. The closet was too hot, too stifling, too full of junk, and the small square of floor space she’d been dumped on was already cramping her limbs. But she didn’t want them to touch her again. She had bit one of them, some piece of flesh, an arm, or a hand. They had hit her, and now she was in the closet again.
They wouldn’t feed her in the closet.
Steve forgot to feed them even on a good day.
She closed her eyes and rocked, the darkness eating at the walls, devouring the cardboard at her back, eating at the tiny shreds of light like little monsters, determined to leave her alone with the demons. The last shred of light was like a lighthouse beacon, high at the farthest corner of the door, and she wanted to reach for it, to feel the light on her fingertips – but it disappeared.
Suffocating, empty black.
She wanted to cry out, to scream for help, but every part of her knew it was futile. Knew that the darkness would only last longer the more she screamed. She had to behave if she wanted out. She had to be good. Quiet. She had to play nice .
It seemed to have a texture, the darkness. Something foreign, and yet familiar, but above all it felt wrong, threatening. Camille started counting in her head, to different rhythms and meters, closing her eyes against the empty space as if it would make it better.
Then there were hands. Petting her. Stroking her from the black. They pressed at her thighs, between them, groping and pinching, invisible lips and tongues and teeth on her skin. She tried to brush them away, to escape their touch, but nothing worked.
Weak. Powerless. Vulnerable.
‘ Slut ,’ the voices whispered against her cheek, ‘ You like it. You want it. Just take it. ’
“NO!” Her scream shook the darkness. “NO! NO MORE! I WON’T LET YOU!”
The words made the shadows tremble, but the hands kept scratching and clawing at her skin, trying to tear her open so they could get inside. So they could own her. Inside and out.
“I WILL FUCKING KILL YOU!” With her roar the closet shattered, there were no more hands – and there was light. She was surrounded by it. Yellow, and dirty, and flickering, but it was light. Her eyes opened on it, and she blinked.
So much red. Too much.
It was everywhere.
Shit . She had tracked it through the house.
Twice.
“Stupid, stupid, stupid…”
Why the fuck was there so much blood? Should there be this much blood? Had she cut
It was always worse when Smith was gone, as if his strength was recognized even when she was asleep. Making her mind keep the monsters at bay. With him gone, and only his pillow to keep her company, she closed her eyes and practiced breathing.
Sleep . Don’t dream. Don’t think about it.
Don’t think about it.
Don’t even think -
* * *
It was dark behind her eyes, and the darkness got smaller and smaller until her shoulders were pressed against boxes. Old, stale clothes brushed her face and shoulders, and then panic took hold inside her.
There was rustling on the other side of the door that formed in the darkness, narrow strips of light framing the edges, and she scrambled for the doorknob, scratching at the wood. There were tears on her cheeks. Hot and wet. Her voice came out weak as she begged, “Please, please don’t!”
The hard thump of furniture being moved against the door made her cry harder, her hand twisting the knob, uselessly throwing her full weight at the door as if it mattered. Then that voice, Steve’s voice , was on the other side and she threw herself away from it like it might burn her. “You fucking know better, Camille. If you’re nice to us, we’re nice to you. You think about whether or not you want to behave.”
“NO!” She screamed, and the panic was making her chest tighter. There wasn’t enough air. The closet was too hot, too stifling, too full of junk, and the small square of floor space she’d been dumped on was already cramping her limbs. But she didn’t want them to touch her again. She had bit one of them, some piece of flesh, an arm, or a hand. They had hit her, and now she was in the closet again.
They wouldn’t feed her in the closet.
Steve forgot to feed them even on a good day.
She closed her eyes and rocked, the darkness eating at the walls, devouring the cardboard at her back, eating at the tiny shreds of light like little monsters, determined to leave her alone with the demons. The last shred of light was like a lighthouse beacon, high at the farthest corner of the door, and she wanted to reach for it, to feel the light on her fingertips – but it disappeared.
Suffocating, empty black.
She wanted to cry out, to scream for help, but every part of her knew it was futile. Knew that the darkness would only last longer the more she screamed. She had to behave if she wanted out. She had to be good. Quiet. She had to play nice .
It seemed to have a texture, the darkness. Something foreign, and yet familiar, but above all it felt wrong, threatening. Camille started counting in her head, to different rhythms and meters, closing her eyes against the empty space as if it would make it better.
Then there were hands. Petting her. Stroking her from the black. They pressed at her thighs, between them, groping and pinching, invisible lips and tongues and teeth on her skin. She tried to brush them away, to escape their touch, but nothing worked.
Weak. Powerless. Vulnerable.
‘ Slut ,’ the voices whispered against her cheek, ‘ You like it. You want it. Just take it. ’
“NO!” Her scream shook the darkness. “NO! NO MORE! I WON’T LET YOU!”
The words made the shadows tremble, but the hands kept scratching and clawing at her skin, trying to tear her open so they could get inside. So they could own her. Inside and out.
“I WILL FUCKING KILL YOU!” With her roar the closet shattered, there were no more hands – and there was light. She was surrounded by it. Yellow, and dirty, and flickering, but it was light. Her eyes opened on it, and she blinked.
So much red. Too much.
It was everywhere.
Shit . She had tracked it through the house.
Twice.
“Stupid, stupid, stupid…”
Why the fuck was there so much blood? Should there be this much blood? Had she cut
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