“Got you something today,” he says as he holds out a leather journal to me. I take the book from him. Dark gray moleskin, so I know it’s wasn’t exactly cheap. “I figured as much as you like to read, you know, maybe you like to write or something.”
And I swoon again.
He sits on the edge of the mattress, his hand resting over my foot. “Do you?” he asks.
“Do I what?” I run my hand over the leather, exhilarated by the feel of something new.
“Do you like to write?”
“I mean, I used to write poetry all the time…”
He lies down on the bed, his fingers now trailing over my calf. “Really? What kind?”
“Macabre. You know, dark stuff.”
“Huh, figures. Darkness inside of you comment and all.” He laughs a little. “How old were you when you started?”
“Fifth grade.”
“That’s quite young.”
“Yeah, well.” I swallow. “Sometimes you just have to get things out, you know?”
“I do. Oh, I know, Ava. I do.”
And there is silence. A tense silence where we both realize we have more in common than we’d like to admit. If I’m honest, though, that is something I’ve known because you aren’t drawn to a random stranger like this if there isn’t something so deep and fucked up and warped that you share. That darkness—it’s like a beacon, a silent, colorless beacon that sucks like people together.
“Do you write?” I ask.
One of his brows arch and a one-sided smirk kicks the corner of his mouth up. “Of course. It’s therapy.”
“Exactly.”
“So, we understand each other then?” He laughs and places his hand on my leg before standing and walking to the door. “I’ll see about getting you a different room if you like? An actual room with a bed and dresser.”
And all I can say is: “Thank you” because I am stuck here. Forever, I’m afraid, but I don’t necessarily know that I mind any longer.
The lock clicks and I open the journal to the first blank page. There are no words. Not a stray mark. I stare at it, and the funny thing is, for the first time since I’ve been here, there is a sense of freedom. I can write whatever I want. I can lose myself in a world I dream up. I can keep myself from going completely mad, simply by escaping into what should be reality. Perhaps this is how de Cervantes felt when he was imprisoned, maybe a revelation similar to this is what drove him to write the first lines ofDon Quixote. Taking the pen, I don’t even think. I just write:
When I talk to myself, I fear I may be going mad, but when I write to myself—there is the hope that these silent words will eventually reach someone. I’m Ava Donovan: captive, hostage—and that is how I will be remembered because to the outside world, I no longer exist. I only exist in here. With him, and sometimes, when he looks at me like he could love me in way no one else could, I’m okay with that. Maybe I am mad, or maybe I’ve just found the place I belong.
I stop writing. Chill bumps spread over my arms when I read back over what I’ve written. Writing is an art, and true art comes from inspiration, which makes me wonder what kind of fucked-up lives some of my favorite authors have led. Surely there are pieces of them in each horrid tale. Maybe it is their subconscious writing—are people even the authors? It more likely is the hurt and anger and fear, I want to believe it is the emotions that bleed words onto paper.
Because surely I’m not this far gone.
Surely I don’t love him…
18
Max
Day 59—five and a half weeks later
Iflattenout the comforter and glance around the room, my nerves on fucking fire. This is phase two: bringing comfort and familiarity to a situation that should be anything but. For all intents and purposes, this is an actual bedroom—never mind there’s a double deadbolt on the outside of the door.
Everything is ready, except for me. I’m not ready for this shit.
She’s standing in the corner, a huge smile on her face as she runs her hand over the items on the bookshelf. I moved all of her books in here, but aside from that, every single thing in here, those have been here for all the other girls. Each girl is made to believe this room was prepared especially for them, they think it is a sign that I love them. That I care deeply for them because why else would I go to the trouble of all this? Of the dainty furniture, the freshly laundered sheets?
