Page 35 of Exposed
Everything in my mind goes blank. Coldness surrounds me.
“You make these accusations about me, and yet you refuse to acknowledge your own desires and behavior,” he says. I shiver. He twists his ankle, his rubber boots smothering my pussy raw. “My darling, sweet one, we tried to help your mother, but some cases can’t be cured.”
He bends down and brushes his hand over the top of my head, petting me like an animal. Ice runs down me. His boot is heavy. He chuckles deeply. He doesn’t seem entertained; he seems livid, forcing a laugh before the real torture begins. Tears crowd my throat. His upper lip curls.
“We’re both freaks,” he says. “And that is your problem, sweet one. Your issues are very much real. You belong here.”
I don’t belong in the asylum.
My issues aren’t real.
I faked the symptoms.
I’m not obsessed with getting perverted satisfaction.
I’m not obsessed.
I’m here because I choose to be here.
I’m here because of my mom.
I’m here because?—
For the next hour, these mantras roll around in my head, an endless loop trying to convince myself of my reasons and actions. Everything is a blur. My mind can’t fully process anything.
I don’t remember getting dressed. I don’t remember Dr. Ambrose escorting me from the basement to his office. I don’t remember Benji picking me up. I don’t remember getting in the car or putting on my seatbelt. Did Benji buckle me up? Did Dr. Ambrose?
I repeat these phrases internally to keep myself in check. Whenever I stall, my brain falls back to Dr. Ambrose’s words:
Your issues are very much real.
You’ll be back.
You belong here.
We’re both freaks.
It’s sunset, the early evening chill settling around us. The asphalt whizzes by. White dashes. Yellow lines. Red lights. Red, like the acid burns on his face. Yellow, like the sagging skin under his eyes. White, like the thick scars on his cock.
“You don’t have to go through with this,” Benji says.
I stay fixated on the road. Benji has said things like this before, warning me the Wellard Asylum is a bad place and claiming he wants to protect me. And maybe some stupid part of me assumed Benji would always be here to rescue me. Maybe that’s what he’s doing now.
What happens if I don’t want to be rescued anymore?
Not by him.
Not by me.
The drive stretches on, and the evening grows darker. Benji doesn’t say anything else; he focuses on the road. Or maybe he does say more, but I can’t hear him.
I could tell Benji to keep driving. I could tell him we need to leave everything in our apartment behind. I could tell him we need to run away so the deranged doctor won’t be able to find us. I could tell him we need to gonow.
My lips don’t move. I press my forehead against the window.
Benji is safe. Our life is balanced.
But I want to go back to the asylum and wait for Dr. Ambrose’s insane training, and he’s probably my father.
