Page 50 of Darkest Before Dawn


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And I’m tired of people thinking I’m insane for loving him. Black and white. I need it in black and white, the entire thing. The emotions, the truth. So, I pull my phone from the front pocket of my back pack, flip through all those emails, and reply to Tabitha Strong’s email from months ago:

I’d love for you to tell my story.

38

Max

The light bouncesoff the sleek book cover. It’s simple, really. Black, a keyhole of light off center,Love Within the Dark: The Story of Ava Donovan,in cursive white letters. I pick the book up, sweeping my fingers over her name before flipping to the back jacket.

Ava Donovan was abducted after two men shot her boyfriend in cold blood.

Sixty-four days in captivity. Sixty-four days to lose yourself—or find yourself.

Constantly wondering when and how you will die, that does something to you. To your mind. But what do you do when it does something to your heart? What on earth do you do when the man holding you captive seems just as broken as you are, when his mere presence becomes a comfort you crave—when you love him even though you shouldn’t? You smile and tell yourself it’s okay because love has no morals.

This is her story, retold by Tabitha Strong, acclaimed True Crime author ofAnother Man’s WifeandDying to Win. Warning: There may be triggers for some suffering from traumatic events.

I swallow. Heat creeps over my chest, up my neck, and to my cheeks. I catch myself glancing nervously around, afraid I may look suspicious—afraid that someone will know I wasthatman. I am the man who held her captive. I made her love me and she still believes it half a year later.

I turn to the first page.At nineteen, you’re worried about studying for finals and what party you’ll go to Friday night. But for me, I should have been worried about being plucked from my perfect life and locked away in a cellar…

Shedidn’thave a perfect life.

…but that would have been the least of my worries because what I have endured since I’ve been released, well, that is crueler than you can imagine. Loving a ghost that everyone tells you is nothing but the devil, that is a slow form of torture.

There’s a loud snap when I abruptly close the book, so loud the woman next to me shoots an annoyed glare at me. I’m tempted to flip her the bird, but I refrain, tucking the book under my arm as I head to the register.

My palms slick with sweat as I wait for the cashier to ring it up. She scans the barcode, then pops her gum. Her gaze narrows and she glances at me. Smiles. Scans the book again and it beeps. By the time I’ve paid and taken the bag from her, sweat is trickling down my temples. Part of this reaction is guilt, paranoia, but part of it is something entirely different. It’s the thought of her. The thought of her thinking of me, loving me, the small bit of hope that the connection—that that was true.

* * *

It’spast midnight and here I sit, reading a story I know all too well. Guilt consumes me with every fucking word.As twisted as it sounds, even though I should have been scared—terrified even—there was something about him that soothed me. Something that told my soul I would be saved because even though he was a bad man, something told me he’d never be bad to me. And isn’t that what matters? Love is personal, and if he would make me his queen, regardless of whether that be of heaven or hell, that is all that mattered.

How terrible it is to love someone whothinksthey love you.

The momentI first laid eyes on him—there was something already there. My therapist has told me that it is a veneer. That because I was in a situation dictated by fear, the constant spike in adrenaline, that persistent rush—that is what has given me afalsesense of love. Evidently, the rush you get from fear can mimic the physiological responses of love. So I was conditioned to love him. I have been told that time and time again. That he was a master manipulator, first by secluding me, then slowly forcing me to trust him, pretending he cared by giving me things, by spending time with me.

“A manipulator makes it so you can’t separate truth from lies. And, Ava, that is what this man did to you. He made you believe that you loved him, when the truth is you hate him.”

But I don’t hate him.

“You don’t even know him. You know only what he wanted you to know.”

Sometimes, all you need to know is found within a single look, a single touch. Occasionally, there are people our souls are bound to before we’ve ever met them, and that is why I know I truly love him. I didn’tdecideto love him. My warped mind didn’tchoseto love him. My heart—that has nothing to do with this.

We aren’t meant to understand a why or how to everything. No, sometimes we must just understand what is. Sometimes, no matter how evil and twisted it may seem, we just have to believe in fate. Life is not a fairytale, and I wouldn’t want it to be because we must know hate and pain to actually know what love is. They told me he was a monster—but that’s only because most people don’t know how to love things they don’t understand. And no one will ever understand this.

I may be alive. I may be free, but I am still a hostage only able to breathe inside the heart of a ghost. A man whose last name I don’t even know…and love is the cruelest captor. I know because I survived one form of captivity, but tell me, who can live when their heart is captive?

One more page. And do I dare turn it because this is beautiful and I don’t want it tainted. Slowly, reluctantly, I flip to the last page.

To my captor:

I am dead. Love has killed me, but the funny thing about this type of death—it is the only death you are alive to feel. Love is what makes us human, so without you I am nothing but an empty vessel. I love you. And ifyoulove me, you’ll find me.

Is it right?

Maybe not, but the thing is, love has no morals—but I believe you do.