Page 39 of Exposed
A small building, not much bigger than a garden shack, catches my attention. It’s probably the groundskeeper’s storage area or the office. Whoever is in there may know something about the empty grave. I doubt anyone works at night, but I’m grasping for answers. I’m crumbling on the inside.
I run toward it.
“Please!” I bang on the door. “Can someone help? My mother’s grave has been dug up! Help! I think someone stole my mother!” I pound my fists into the dull wood. “Someone help me.” As my resolve crumbles, I whisper, “Tell me what to do.”
My knuckles wrap the door until they’re raw.
The door stays closed.
I lean on the building, slide to the ground, and hug my knees close to my chest. Sobs rake through me. It’s like I’m in the ocean, and I’m fucking drowning because I know what I want, but none of it is good for me.
Breathe. Step. Move forward,I tell myself.You can’t give up now, or this will haunt you for the rest of your life. If this is a trap, then you have to go through with it, even if you end up in your own grave.
Eventually, I drag my feet against the patchy grass. I wrinkle my nose at the empty coffin. What did Dr. Ambrose do with her corpse, anyway? Is he the kind of man to fuck the dead?
I shake my head. Dr. Ambrose gets off on causing pain, and a corpse can’t feel anything. He must have done this to manipulate Benji and control me.
Why does that warm my insides?
I sit on the edge of the grave and dangle my feet inside. Maybe there’s comfort in a world where Dr. Ambrose wants me enough to create a situation where I’m forced to stay in his care, where I’m completely his.
No, no, no! He’s all wrong!
I scream and tear my fingers through my hair. For fuck’s sake, I just want to belong toanyoneas long as I don’t have a choice. As long as they want methatmuch, damn it!
Maybe I did this to myself…
Maybe I like that Dr. Ambrose might be my father.
Maybe I like everything he’s done to me.
Maybe I love it.
My stomach churns, knots spiraling deeper into my core, tendrils of logic and self-hatred braiding with disgust and shame. Still, I want more of him, because I don’t know if I’ll ever find a connection like ours again.
We’re both freaks,Dr. Ambrose had said, as if my desires, my desperation, myneedswere acceptable. Familiar. A genuine part of who I am. Whoweare.
A car engine echoes across the empty streets. Headlights flicker as the vehicle turns onto the road. A brown cargo van with gold-painted ridges comes into view. Bars cage the small windows on the side, and bright red letters decorate the exterior:The Wellard Asylum.
Dr. Ambrose is here to collect me.
Ice freezes my chest and every muscle clenches as the van parks outside of the cemetery. The engine stops. The headlights switch off.
I stand next to my mother’s grave.
Don’t breathe or step. Run.Run!
The van doors open. The assistant steps out and pushes up his glasses.
Then Dr. Ambrose emerges.
A pulse pounds in my ears. My toes curl. I hold my breath.
The doctor steps around the van and into the streetlight. We’re a few meters away from each other, and yet the burns flecked across his face are visible, and the deep crater on his cheek flames red.
He offers his hand to me. “Are you ready to come home, love?”
Home?
