Page 78 of Twisted Addiction
My blood left smeared handprints along the car as I pushed off it and started toward the elevator.
Each step was a battle—my body lurching, my breath wheezing, the sound of my shoes squelching on the floor like wet cloth.
I left a trail of crimson footprints behind me, a breadcrumb path of my suffering.
The elevator ride felt endless.
The metal walls seemed to close in around me, the flickering overhead light pulsing in time with my heartbeat.
My reflection in the steel door stared back—a ghost in a soaked jacket, eyes wide and feverish.
I wanted to close my eyes, to rest for just a moment, but I knew if I did, I might never wake again.
When the doors finally slid open, I stumbled into the hallway, my body scraping the wall for balance.
The carpet absorbed the sound of my limping steps.
I reached our door, fumbled with the keycard, dropped it once, twice—my blood-slicked fingers refusing to obey. When the light finally blinked green, I shoved it open, breathless and shaking.
“Mom,” I whispered, voice cracking. “I’m back—”
The words died in my throat.
The room was dark.
The air was colder than it should’ve been.
Something in the silence was wrong—too heavy, too still. My stomach twisted as my eyes adjusted.
The bed was empty. Sheets torn. A lamp on the floor.
And that faint, unmistakable scent—
chamomile,
and blood.
Blood smeared the floor, stark against the faded carpet.
Her clothes lay in tatters—her raincoat ripped, her blouse shredded, her underwear discarded like a cruel afterthought.
Scratch marks clawed the bedstand, the headboard, the floor, as if she’d fought desperately against an unseen force.
My heart seized, a cold dread sinking into my bones.
She was gone.
Taken.
The fear in her eyes earlier, her nervous glances in the rain—it hadn’t been paranoia.
Someone had come for her, and the signs screamed of violation, of rape, of a fate too horrific to name.
My foster parents—those monsters who’d killed my father—were the only ones vile enough to do this.
Had they found her, hunted her down to silence her forever?
I pressed a trembling hand against the wall, my blood mixing with hers on the cracked paint. “No,” I whispered, the word cracking apart in my throat. “No, no, no...” My knees buckled, and I hit the carpet, the pain in my leg flaring white-hot, but I didn’t care.
