“You think you’ve won?” I challenge, my pulse quickening. “You’ve pinned me down and silenced me, but I’ll scream until my fucking lungs are raw if I have to. I’ll bleed until my heart gives out; I’ll do whatever it fucking takes to bring you down, even if it means I go down with you.”
His grip shifts, no longer just maliciously possessive but hesitant, almost curious, as if he’s trying to gauge the weight of my words. That brief hesitation is all I need to shove my knee up toward his groin, just like I trained for when the world first tried to take me down. It lands with satisfying precision, and he gasps, his grip slipping in surprise. I don’t waste a moment; this is it. With the adrenaline surging, I wrench myself free and scamper backward, almost collapsing to the ground as I feel the last remnants of my chains shift. A primal scream rips through my throat, echoing off the damp walls.
I sprint down the familiar corridor, relying on the dim light filtering from the far end to guide my way. I hear him behind me, shouting in fury, his footsteps like thunder pounding against the concrete. But I don't glance back; I just need to keep moving, keep running until I find my way out. Each breath is fire and ice, the sharp air burning my lungs, my heart hammering against my ribs as I duck under a low-hanging pipe. I dodge through narrow passageways, the musty air turning fresher as I race toward the flickering light ahead, each step fueled by the thought of the guys—their futures, their battles, their laughter—all thrumming in my heart like a vengeful war drum.
Suddenly, I skid to a halt as I reach an emergency exit door, the metal handle cold against my palm. I hear footsteps behind me, growing closer, and my pulse speeds. Panic surges in my throat once more, but it’s a different kind of panic this time, laced with hope. I go to yank the door open, but it's stuck, my muscles screaming with the effort, and suddenly I'm violentlyyanked backwards, deeper into the building, with the hope of reaching the outside fading as my hand slips off the bar.
"You should fucking know by now I'm not letting you go, especially without a fight," he growls in anger, dragging me kicking and screaming back to the top floor of the apartment we used to share together.
With confirmation that I'm really in California again, I begin to wonder how the fuck he got me out here and how long I've been missing. For now, I stop screaming as everything begins to dawn on me, but my hands continue to claw viciously at his arms, leaving deep, blood-red marks behind from my nails. I twist and turn, using all my strength to break free from his grip, but he’s fucking relentless—his fingers crush my wrists like a vise as he drags me back down the dim corridor.
"You really thought you could escape? You never learn," he snarls, laughing, a twisted grin spreading across his face.
Each step back into the darkness feels like a betrayal, the memories of laughter and warmth now poisoned by his presence. The hallway stretches infinitely, adorned with the shadows of our past. The paint on the walls peels, and the flickering lights cast a ghostly pallor, reminding me of the nights I spent here, trembling against him—or worse, curling up into myself, hoping he wouldn’t notice. But those days are behind me. I'm not just a fractured shell of who I was. I am what I've endured, a testament built from the remnants of suffering.
"You don't fucking own me, Dustin." I manage to spit out between labored breaths, feeling my will harden.
He may have caught me this time, but I refuse to accept that this is the end of my fight. The guys—Hawk, Raze, and Red—they’re out there somewhere, and I have to believe they won't stop searching for me. He throws me against the wall, the impact jarring, rattling my thoughts like a pinball machine. I’m dizzy, but I push through, threatening to squeeze my eyes shut againstthe onslaught of fear and memories flooding back, battling to reclaim my will.
“You really think they fucking care?” He taunts, his face inching closer, his breath hot and rancid against my skin. “They abandoned you first, didn’t they?” He grins so sadistically it makes me cringe, and for a brief moment, I feel like he's never going to let me go.
“Shut the fuck up,” I seethe, kicking out instinctively.
Catching him off guard, it sends him reeling back a step, and I seize the opportunity, scrambling to find balance on my unsteady legs. My head spins, but I won’t let his words echo in my mind. Rage propels me forward now, crashing through the haze. I dart down the corridor again, each push of my muscles a promise to the others that I won’t let their sacrifices be in vain. Responsibility washes over me like a tidal wave—those aren’t just ghosts in the rearview; they’re my fucking reason for moving forward.
At the far end, I glimpse a window, one I've snuck out through many times—the glass grimy and caked with the dust of neglect, but a sliver of moonlight manages to slip through, illuminating my hopes. I sprint toward it, heart pounding in my ears, drowning out the chaos around me. Just as I reach for the window latch, a hand catches my shoulder, tearing me back into the claustrophobic space once again. Before I can react, Dustin spins me around, his face a venomous mask of rage and desperation.
“You think I’ll let you go that easily?” He snarls, his grip locking down on my throat, the pressure both terrifying and a desperate reminder of my own fragility in this moment.
Panic ignites all over again, but I don’t let it snuff out the ember of rebellion. I claw at his hand, gasping for air, but in the struggle, something deep inside me ignites. With my other hand, I reach deep into my pocket for the small plastic handle ofthe knife I’d hidden there—a bitter reminder of the battles I’ve fought. In one swift motion, I draw the blade and press it against the soft flesh of his wrist.
“Let me go,” I demand, my voice unexpectedly steady as I stare into his eyes, watching the surprise flicker there for just a heartbeat before it hardens again.
“Fucking do it, then,” he mocks, unaware that I’d been waiting for this—the moment where I have a chance not just to survive, but to seize power back. “You wouldn’t kill me, Whitney. You’ve never had it in you.”
A sickening smirk spreads across his face, and for a moment, anger threatens to engulf me. But I realize the truth: I’d never kill him—not yet—not when my escape is so close.
“I don’t want to kill you,” I reply, conviction burning in my chest. “I just want you to know what it feels like to live in constant fear. I want you to feel every fucking ounce of pain you’ve caused.”
With that, I press the knife in deeper, just enough to draw blood without severing; it’s the taste of iron that pushes me to act. I shove him backward with every ounce of force I can summon, then know I have only one option left. I can’t hesitate any longer.
I turn and lunge for the window, feeling the jagged edge of glass bite into my palm as I force it open. No more second guesses, no more doubts. I have to leap into the unknown.
“Whitney!” Dustin roars, his voice distorted by the chaos swirling around us.
Just as I go to leap through the window, he catches me again. Finally done with my bullshit, Dustin punches me over and over again, my eye instantly swelling shut. His hands wrap around my throat, and I can feel myself going in and out of consciousness as he literally drags me back down the hall by my throat. Darkness overtakes me, and I allow myself to drift offinto the unknown as the guys' faces flash like lightning in my mind.
I wake up to Dustin on top of me, his grunts and groans bringing back terrifying memories I thought I'd buried deep enough down they wouldn't resurface. But I was wrong. He continues to violently thrust inside of me, an evil aura surrounding him as I peer through my good eye. My hands are now bound so I can't easily break free, tied to the posts at the head of the bed we used to share.
I used to think Dustin was my saving grace from the horror I'd experienced in the foster homes I was raised in. He showed me true love, but only for a short amount of time. When he knew he had me—right where he wanted me—he let his true colors show, and they were so fucking ugly then, just like they are now. I still believed being with Dustin was the best thing for me, even through all the beatings and manipulation. I didn’t think I was worthy of anything better, especially since the guys I first fell in love with completely abandoned me.
Over time, I knew I didn't deserve what Dustin was putting me through. I didn't deserve to be beaten. I didn't deserve to be raped. I didn't deserve the lies and manipulation. And I only realized it when it was too late. As I was tumbling down the hard, wooden steps, with fear flashing in my mind, I knew that I deserved better, but I felt like it was too late. I'd never be able tohave the love I deserved, and it wasn't just Dustin's fault—it was mine for putting up with it, for allowing him to ruin me for years.
With the knife still in my balled-up hand, I cling to the smallest shred of hope I can find inside myself. I let him torture me because there's no way I can stop it. So I wait. I want until he's finished with me. He climbs off me and strolls to the bathroom to clean himself up while I'm left used and discarded on our old bed, trying not to freak the fuck out. I know he'll be getting tired soon, and when he falls asleep, I'll use my knife to cut the ties around my wrists, and then I'm going to slit his fucking throat, putting an end to my nightmare once and for all, because he isn't going to stop coming for me.
I have to kill him in order to finally be free of the chains he's kept me held down with for all these years. So I lie on the bed, naked, bruised, and bloody, trembling as I try to catch my breath. I keep my eyes closed, but I remain wide awake. The hair on my body rises as I hear his footsteps returning to the bedroom, but I pretend I'm sleeping, hoping he leaves me alone for now.
"You're such a stupid little girl for fighting me the way you did," he says softly as he climbs in bed beside me, lighting a cigarette.
