I scream.

I claw at the lid.

I wreck my body, trying to find a way out.

I cry, growing more hysterical with every tear that falls.

I beg to know what I did.

And when I’m hoarse and unable to do anything else, I lapse into my memories. Maybe I hallucinate them, even.

Who knows.

Eventually, I have completely overtaxed myself. I enter a dreamlike state, drifting in and out of consciousness. Twilight sleep, that’s a good way to describe it.

When the lid of The Box is pried off, my body is still as death, tears dried on my face. My eyelids open with a flutter, and I wince at the low light of dusk that’s pouring in the window of my room.

Monster is there, hovering over me, his expression unreadable. I can’t bear to look at him, can’t stand the desperate way my mind races to try to figure out what he is thinking. So, I turn my head to the side, squeezing my eyes closed.

A lone tear leaks down my face, broadcasting the deep sadness I feel right now. I breathe in and out, trying to steady myself.

He doesn’t say anything for the longest time. He’s still, or at least I don’t hear him move at all. Then he reaches over, picking up my hand.

I flinch, but that doesn’t stop him. He pulls me up, getting me out of The Box with some difficulty. Monster holds me in his arms like a rag doll. I’ve lost all the will and the energy it would take to fight him.

He carries me out of the bedroom and into my bathroom, sitting me on the toilet. I look around, exhausted. Everything is done in white here, the linens and the shampoo bottles and the white tile floor. He starts filling the clawfoot tub.

Monster turns to me, casting a critical eye over me. He slowly and methodically undresses me, from my necklaces to my dress to my panties. He does it without comment, seeming to derive no joy from it.

It makes me wonder if this is his first time undressing an unwilling participant. My guess is no, it isn’t. It’s cold in the bathroom. I shiver, goosebumps breaking out across my arms and legs.

Steam permeates the bathroom. The water finishes filling the tub, and Monster turns the taps off. He lifts me up again and puts me into the water with a sploosh. I release a sigh as the heat begins to suffuse my skin.

Turning my face away from Monster, I close my eyes. I’m tired. I don’t think I’ve ever felt so tired in my whole life. My arms rest on the sides of the tub, aching from pounding and clawing at the lid of The Box.

Monster lets me just lie there for a minute, soaking. Then he grabs a bar of soap and starts washing my body. My arms, my breasts, my legs, my back. He doesn’t touch my pussy, although he has all of the power and control.

I know I would’ve let him do whatever he wanted to. I would have just squeezed my eyes shut and tried to disassociate myself from what was happening. But no, he doesn’t.

He coaxes me into sitting up and washes my hair for me. His fingers on my scalp feel good as he massages the shampoo into my hair. I feel frailer and more fragile than ever with those strong hands wrapped around my head. He could crush my head if he really tried; bang my face against the side of the tub to cave my skull in.

For some reason, I feel an eerie level of calmness about that. He may have put me in The Box, but he hasn’t killed me. I lean into his touch as he rinses my hair.

I’m broken. I know I am.

But the worse Monster is to me, and the further down into the darkness I sink, the calmer I feel.

Knowing that he could do so many things to me, and yet…

He doesn’t. He could kill me. He could leave me in The Box forever.

I recognize that.

Monster lifts me up out of the tub and wraps me in a big towel. He leads me out of the bathroom, into the bedroom. The Box is nowhere to be seen; he must have shoved it back under the bed while I was soaking.

“Lie down,” he says, guiding my movements still. “Here, get under the comforter.”

I do so, clumsily climbing under the blanket while he holds it up. He tucks the blanket in around me. My hair is still soaking wet, but I just close my eyes.

A little voice in the back of my head says that I am in shock, but I just push it aside, snuggling deeper in my comforter cocoon. Monster sits on the edge of my bed, oddly silent.

I crack open my eyes to find him looking down at me with a concerned expression. There is real pain in his eyes, but I don’t know what it’s about exactly.

“What?” I rasp, my voice is all but gone.

He glances at me. “You’re very afraid of enclosed spaces.”

My eyes roll to the side, looking down at my bed. The Box is still there, though I cannot see it. “Yes.”

“Are you afraid of the dark too?” His question is gentle, but I wince anyway.

“Yes.” I try to swallow the lump of emotion that is building in my throat. Tears prick my eyes, even though I thought I was cried out.

I’m so sensitive right now, like a raw nerve ending. I feel everything.

“Why are you afraid so of them?” he asks, his hand caressing my hip through the blanket. “What do you think is the root cause?”

My breath hitches, because I know, without thinking.

The answer is obvious enough to me. When I think of small spaces and darkness, I can’t help but think of Mama. And when I think of Mama, I think of death.

Of long, drawn out illness. Of contagion, even though she didn’t die from something that anybody could catch. Most of all, I think of addiction.

I quietly blow out a breath, opening my eyes. He’s right there, a patient expression on his face. Waiting for me, for my revelation.

Lying here, I am about as low as I can get. I’m in a state of depression, of rawness. I can’t hide anything from Monster. I can’t cover anything up.

There is no pretending, not with him. Haven’t I just learned that?

I steel myself because I know the words will hurt. It’s the first time I’ve ever told anyone about my mother.

“My mom died when I was young,” I say, my eyes filling with unshed tears. “And she died… she died in the dark. In a small, cramped space. She was sick for a long time, but…”

Shaking my head, I am overwhelmed. Monster’s expression doesn’t change one bit, he still just looks patient. Considering all that he knows about my family, I guess it’s not surprising to realize that he knows.

I imagine he read it somewhere. Lily Carolla, wife of Sal Carolla, dead of an overdose ten years ago.

“You already knew,” I say, my voice ragged. “Didn’t you?”

Monster draws a breath and nods. “I did. Well, I knew your mother existed, and that she died of a heart attack.”

My eyebrows fly up. “What? No, my mother died of a heroin overdose.”

He looks a little puzzled. “That isn’t what her coroner’s report said.”

“I think I know what my mother died of. After all, I was there when she died.”

His brows knit together. “It said she had a heart attack and passed away in her sleep.”

I grit my teeth. “No. Maybe that’s what my father wanted people to believe. He certainly didn’t want anyone to find out that his wife was staying in the root cellar beneath the house. Or that she was addicted to heroin for a couple of years. Or that she shot up with her young daughter in the room. Or…”

Sucking in a breath, I wipe at my tears. I have to force myself to say the last bit. “That she died while I was in bed with her. Dad couldn’t bear for anyone to know that.”

Monster’s eyes narrow on my face, and I see a flash of anger cross his features. I tense. His hand trails up to my back, and he starts to rub tiny circles into my flesh through the blanket.

Clearly, it’s not me he’s angry with. “No, I could see how he wouldn’t want anyone to know.”

A sob escapes me. He looks pained. “Shhhhh. Come here, come closer.”

I shift under the comforter, curling closer to him. My breathing is harsh, my tears soaking a spot below my head.

“Breathe in through your nose and out through your mouth. Easy, easy,” he murmurs.

We stay like that for a long time, him still absently massaging my back, me calming down ever so slowly through breathing in and out. Huddling against him, feeling his warmth, I know that he’s still there.

My eyes grow heavy, and I close them.

At length, he sighs. “I should feel bad for doing that.”

I struggle to open my eyes. “Hmm?”

He looks down at me, his steel grey eyes focusing on my face. “I should feel bad for putting you in the box. I should say that I’m sorry, but that would be a lie. I’m not sorry.”

My brain isn’t working that well, so most of his words fly right by me. I’m just so damned sleepy. I mumble, “Okay.”

Monster shakes his head, a strange expression on his face. Is that guilt? Surely not, not from him.

“I like seeing you this way,” he says, almost to himself. “I like having you this broken down. Stripped bare. It isn’t fair to you, but it seems like the punishments erase who you were, leaving only who you are now.”

My brow creases, but I don’t resist. I just let his words flow over me, around me, through me. His fingertips brush wet strands of my hair out of my face.

It’s soothing, the feeling of his fingertips in my hair. My last conscious thought is that he’s never been quite so handsome as now when he’s smiling down at me.