Page 89 of Twisted Addiction
My voice cracked into sobs.” You can’t do this! It’s too dark! I can’t see a thing. It’s too scary here... Giovaniiiiii! Don’t go. Please. I’m begging you... don’t go...”
The echo of my voice came back twisted, warped by the emptiness.
I turned, chest heaving, but the dark was everywhere—total, consuming.
My eyes strained, searching for anything, a crack of light, a window, but there was nothing. Not even the faint shimmer of my own reflection in the air.
It pressed against me, heavy and alive.
The walls seemed to breathe.
The air thickened, every exhale bouncing back into my lungs like someone else was sharing it.
My heartbeat thundered in my ears, too loud, too fast.
And then—voices. Laughter. Whispered and wrong.
No. No, it wasn’t real.
But the dark didn’t care about what was real.
The shadows shifted, crawling closer, and suddenly I was a child again—cornered, small, helpless.
My uncles’ rough hands gripped my arms, dragging me into their corners of the house where no one looked, no one cared.
Their breath, sour and hot, burned my skin.
They were dead. They were dead.
But here, in this dark room, they weren’t. They lived inside the dark.
“Get away!” I screamed, backing into the wall, my palms scraping against cold stone. “Don’t touch me! Don’t—”
Hands weren’t there—but I felt them.
On my arms, my throat, my thighs.
I clawed at my skin, my nails leaving burning welts.
The copper tang of blood hit my tongue before I even realized I was biting my lip raw.
I punched at the air, at ghosts that wouldn’t fade, at memories that refused to stay buried.
Their laughter echoed, low and distorted. The sound of my own sobs joined it until I couldn’t tell which belonged to me anymore.
And for a terrible, shattering moment, I thought maybe Dmitri had been right—maybe I was cursed.
Maybe I’d always been.
Then my legs gave out. I hit the floor hard, the cold concrete knocking the breath from my lungs.
My hand brushed my thigh—wet, sticky—and I realized it wasn’t just from the scratches. The bleeding had started again. The subchorionic hematoma.
A shudder tore through me.
“This... this is too much,” I breathed, shaking my head in disbelief. I shot him, I know I did—but I was scared, desperate. I didn’t deserve this. To be locked away, alone, like something to be discarded.” My hand pressed over my belly, trembling.
I’m only trying to protect my child... and he wants me buried alive for it. Alone with ghosts that won’t stop haunting me.
