Page 87 of Fixation
My point is, he’s been treating me well, taking care of me like no other.
I want to smile.
I want to slice his throat open and watch him bleed out until he dies.
No, I don’t.
“Good morning.” His confident, low voice filters into my thoughts.
Fourth day it is, then.
Fourth day of being his captive.
His patient.
That’s what I am to him. He cares for me.
And I can’t keep lying to myself anymore. I’m happy here. I’m improving.
My heart thuds against my ribs, agreeing with me. I’m thankful for Anderson.
He isn’t simply responsible for helping me get better. Or for changing my IV bag or my bucket whenever he returns from work.
He’s so much more than the man who gives me washcloth showers, who does things to me in my sleep.
Ever since I stopped coughing and shivering every other second, he’s been keeping me updated on how my business is doing.
Without burdening me with the details, he’s told me that he’s been answering my work emails for me. On our walks to the bathroom, he reports to me that Emersyn has everything covered, that Harper’s is taken care of.
He even mentioned that I shouldn’t worry about my custom orders. I still have no clue what he’s done to appease my customers.
I guess I’ll find out when I’m back home.IfI’m ever back home.
I feel like I will be back. Like I have a good chance of making it out of here.
Which, again, is strange.
Aside from his word, I have no guarantees that he’ll ever let me go.
To anyone outside this room, it might sound like he’s a controlling, psycho bastard. Like he doesn’t want anyone to come looking for me.
To me, too, sometimes.
Most of the time, however, I don’t see myself as a prisoner. I feel liberated.
My mind is the freest it’s ever been.
With the daily pressure to come up with a new collection gone, I’m able to tap into my creativity again.
For months now, I’ve been forcing myself to create. Here, in Anderson’s basement, the ideas float into my head.
With every new concept for bracelet, ring, or earring I have, my spirit soars a little higher.
In the hours that Anderson is away—either at work or sleeping—ideas come to my head. They become more alive in my head as time passes. New designs. Different materials that could work together.
It pains me to say that my captor is the one who made it happen. It pains me so bad that I threw up over it yesterday.
No, that’s not true. I wasn’t upset. I was simply reacting to the drugs.
