As I stare at the fury emanating off Jonathan’s features, I know, I just know that there’s no way in hell I’ll ever be able to escape.
I’ll end up like Alicia.
Roaming the halls. Hallucinating. Poisoned.
Dead.
A rush of life shoots through my bubbling veins and I push at his chest with my bloodied palms, my limbs flailing about. I’m acting straight out of irrational anger and the need to stay alive. Gone is my logical, strategic side — it was killed when I didn’t hit the ground and fell back into Jonatha
n’s cage. “Let me go!”
My fight is futile. It’s like he doesn’t feel my fists against his shirt or my scratches against the skin of his collarbone. It’s almost as if he’s waiting for my fit of anger to subside and for me to go slack.
I don’t.
I squirm and wiggle and push and punch. I use every trick under the sun to get away from his merciless grip.
The silent treatment greets me as he walks me back to the house.
No, no…
My energy heightens and I kick my feet in the air in an attempt to make him loosen his hold.
All I get is a harsh squeeze on my outer thigh. Ouch.
We pass the statue of the Virgin Mary carrying the little angel as they both cry, and a scary sense of foreboding goes through me.
A realisation, too.
That statue represented Alicia’s life in the King mansion. She was crying and no one saw her. She suffered and no one helped her.
If anything, her husband and life companion poisoned her. He killed her.
He killed my sister.
Angry tears fill my eyes as I elbow and claw at his side. I know it won’t get me anywhere with his strength, but as long as I can breathe, I’ll fight.
I’m a fighter. A survivor. I’ve come this far, and I won’t allow Jonathan to dictate my end.
It doesn’t matter that my palms keep bleeding. The sting and the burn will eventually go away once I’m out of here.
Margot appears at the entrance, wearing a long nightgown. She must’ve gotten out of bed due to the commotion.
“Help me, Margot! Help!” I scream at the top of my lungs.
She opens her mouth, then closes it while she watches the scene like it’s out of a freak show. I’m struggling in Jonathan’s hold while his face is stone-cold as if it’s made of fucking granite.
“Sir…?” she asks, almost uncertain.
“Go back to sleep, Margot,” he tells her in a firm tone that accepts no negotiations, his attention focused ahead.
“No!” I squirm. “Nooo!”
I stare behind me at Margot, hoping against all hope that she’ll follow and somehow help me out of the tyrant’s clutches.
She’s not there.
No one is.