Total pages in book: 99
Estimated words: 96065 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 480(@200wpm)___ 384(@250wpm)___ 320(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 96065 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 480(@200wpm)___ 384(@250wpm)___ 320(@300wpm)
The video stops and then I hear a voice behind me that chills me to my soul.
“So lovely to see you back here, kiddo. We have a second chance to fix you.”
I know the voice. The voice is the man from the video. My tormentor. The one who took her and did God only knows what.
He steps into my line of sight and my brain takes several seconds to catch up. The vague man from my memories isn’t some scary guy. No, he has a charming smile and a face that makes people want to follow him.
He’s the President of the United States, after all.
Dr. Huxley.
Hatred at myself consumes me. How could I fall victim to Dad’s programming and let him conveniently wipe Huxley from my mind? They must’ve all felt pleased as fuck when I was at the event, meeting President Huxley, and having no idea that he was a man whom I hated with every fiber of my being.
The betrayal I feel is sickening.
Huxley is a monster. He was cruel in his effort to “treat” me. I’d been a devastated kid who’d lost his parents. Huxley took me in and used me as a science experiment. He thought all his fucked-up methods could fix me—heal me of my debilitating grief.
I was too headstrong, though.
Mentally fought him every step of the way.
He wanted to break me, but I wouldn’t let him.
So rather than admitting defeat, he let Dad adopt me. I was forced to endure new psychological warfare against my fragile mind. This time, headway was made. I think, deep down, I just wanted to feel safe and loved. I allowed myself to be manipulated.
I have to get out of here.
“You were a failure,” Huxley says, cocking his head to the side. “I worked so hard on you.”
Rage and hurt are a firestorm inside of me, but I’m unable to do anything about it. I’m back to the source of my torture.
“But look at what you’ve become,” he continues. “CUP did wonders for you when I couldn’t. It truly is remarkable.”
Memories flood back, whipping me over and over again, each lash more painful than the last. No wonder I kept this shit locked up tight. It fucking hurts.
My mind drifts to my parents. They’d been killed in a car accident. It crushed me. I’d even tried to swallow every damn pill in the house to escape the pain of losing them. All my efforts were for naught. After many failed foster homes, boys’ homes, and group homes, where I fought for my life and dignity, I’d ended up in this psychopath’s steely clutches, which was a thousand times worse than anything I could’ve dreamed of before.
“From what your father tells me,” Huxley says, frowning, “you’ve been slipping. All because of that girl of yours.” He bends over so that his face is inches from mine. “Lucky for you, kiddo, my son and his friend have come up with incredible technology. No longer will we have to rely on our previous methods of rewiring someone’s brain. Stem Lock is going to change everything for you.”
I close my eyes so I don’t have to look at him, but then my neck is shot with a bolt of electricity that makes me cry out in pain. What the actual fuck?
“Pay attention,” Doc Junior says from nearby. “No sleeping.”
I want to kill that motherfucker.
“You know, it was disheartening to me when I’d learned you’d fixated on that doll,” Huxley says sadly. “It just goes to show you were broken and beyond what I could do to fix you.”
He continues speaking, but I can’t focus on his words. I’m too busy connecting the rest of the dots in this horrible scene.
“I’ll take good care of Calista.”
He’d been speaking to the girl in the video about the doll. Calista was the doll’s name, not the girl’s. He used the doll to lure her into his torture chamber where he no doubt did his best to scramble her mind.
My gut clenches painfully.
I’ve been searching for something that’s been right in front of my fucking face.
I know who the girl is.
Not family, but a figment of my imagination that tried to put together pieces that didn’t fit in an effort not to forget the girl who I knew was going to suffer the same fate I had. I wanted to save her like I couldn’t save myself.
The girl isn’t my sister.
The girl is Romy.
Romy
Six months later…
Ding.
I blink away my daze and quickly root myself in the present. The smell of savory meat, carrots, onions, and potatoes is a reminder of what the dinging sound was.
The timer.
Roast is done.
I whirl around in the kitchen and hunt down my oven mitt. The heat from the oven blasts my face when I open the door. I’ve been getting better at cooking lately and this roast is proof. I’m giddy with pride. I hope it tastes as good as it looks.