Page 12 of Making the King

I scream until my throat hurts, and the light disappears. Falling to my knees, I wait for the room to swallow me. To…

“Jesus fuck!”

I barely hear the roar or feel my body being jostled as he lifts me up and carries me out of the bathroom.

“Cara?”

Gasping, I greedily inhale as much air as I can. Despite the oxygen in my lungs, it doesn’t feel like enough, and I continue to take in as much as possible. It’s like a vicious circle, though. The more I breathe, the more lightheaded I feel. Yet I can’t stop. My brain keeps telling me to carry on, so I do.

“Stop it!”

With each exhale, it feels like I’m depleting my body of the much needed air. I don’t even try to answer him, instead I fight to make the room stop spinning.

Closing my eyes, I sag in his hold on me. I’m vaguely aware I’m in his lap, my head resting against his chest. The hairs on his chest tickle my nose.

The longer we sit there, the less I battle to breathe. My body relaxes, and I force my breathing to match the rise and fall of his chest.

It’s still dark outside, and the only light illuminating the room is the bedside lamp. Its yellow light creates an almost cozy atmosphere.

When I try to open my eyes, they feel heavy so I decide against it. Barely aware of my actions, I burrow my head into him and breathe in his scent. Rochus smells of citrus and the forest mi abuela took us to for a picnic once.

One of Rochus’ hands runs up and down my back, warming me everywhere I feel cold. I shouldn’t be cold. Not when I’m fully dressed. Though a part of me wants to punch him for touching me, I ignore it. For the first time since I was a kid, I allow someone to hold me.

I’m so tired and weak from denying myself more than the bare minimum of food and water that I’m honestly not even sure I could fight him if I wanted to. Rochus is big, and from his need to always remove his shirt when he’s in the house, I know just how ripped he is.

Before long, I feel myself drifting off, and despite knowing I shouldn’t sleep when he’s around, I don’t have it in me to fight it.

I’m back in the prison, my sister lying on the floor with her head in my lap.

“It’s okay, Cara,” she whispers, with a smile on her lips. “I’ll be free soon.”

“No,” I cry. “Don’t leave me. Por favor quédate.”

Even though I know she can’t, I beg for her to stay with me.

“No one can keep someone like you down, Cara. Give them hell and then get the fuck out of there. Promise me you’ll find a way to be happy.”

The shiv in my hand clanks as it falls onto the floor. It’s covered in Julietta’s blood.

“Cara!”

I dart my head around, looking for whomever called my name. There’s no one else here, though. There never is.

“You must go to him,” my sister whispers.

“Who?” I ask, bewildered. “We’re all alone.”

She laughs, but unlike the other nightmares, she doesn’t sound like she’s dying. She sounds happy. “To your husband, of course.”

“I don’t trust him,” I say, confused.

This conversation is all wrong. That’s not how my nightmares play out. Julietta dies over and over, and we never talk about anything else.

“For fuck’s sake, Cara!”

I look around again, trying to figure out where the voice is coming from. Fisting the shiv, I hold it tightly in case someone is playing a trick on me.

“You need to wake up,” my sister sing-songs. “And you need to stop living in the past.”

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