Purpose (Wonderland #1)

06

Song: everything i wanted by billie eilish

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I am in chains,
Don't touch my chains
~Franz Kafka

Tic. Tac.

The silence is cunning in Regina George's office at the Glendale Police Department, only the sound of the round clock attached to the wall in front of me fills it.

"How long have you been out exactly?" She breaks the silence first.

"A month and a half," I reply, not missing a beat.

She sighs. "And how many times have you been at my office?"

I think for a second. "Ten times?" Tic. Tac.

My eyes leave the clock on the wall and lock with hers; dark and cold. Regina is a gorgeous tall woman, but she's also absolutely terrifying.

"And the only information you've been able to give me, and sorry for the wording— was the color of your last aggressor's eyes," she snaps and I internally cringe. One other thing about her; she has absolutely no filter.

I remain silent and revert my eyes back to the clock. Tic. Tac.

"And while I appreciate that information, him having brown eyes does not help me much," she gets up from her desk and starts walking around the office.

My leg starts bumping on its own, I bring my hand and palm it to calm it down. My heart won't stop beating fast.

"Listen, Celine," she loudly sighs and rubs the lower part of her face. "I get it, you're been through a lot, I do not want to pressure you. I want you to be ready to tell me everything, but the clock is ticking, alright? Who knows where the criminals involved in your case have ran off to now! They could be in fucking New Zealand for god's sake! Police from all over the United States and the FBI combined are waiting for you to give us some valuable information so we can get to work. Every question I ask is left unanswered, I mean for god's sake, you can't remember a single thing that's happened to you for the past ten years?"

I quickly swallow a lump in my throat. "I told you, I don't remember much—"

"No, Celine. Your memory is intact. I have your medical record with me, and there's nothing about a memory loss written in there. You're choosing not to talk, and I don't understand why. Do you not want your aggressors behind bars?"

More than anything. I want them dead.

"C'mon, let's start from the start again. Do you remember the man who kidnapped you ten years ago that day in the park?" She asks with a firm tone.

I take a deep breath. I don't know if the reason why I'm feeling so anxious is because she's bringing up my traumatic past, or because I know I'm going to lie about it. To a fucking cop. To the chief of cops.

"I was eight, how could I remember? I was playing in the park and then I found myself locked in a basement and I didn't leave it until one month ago," I coldly reply, gritting my teeth.

She sighs, not liking my response. "How was this basement? Was there any window? Was it big or small? Cold or hot?"

"No window, small and cold," I say.

She keeps asking me questions for the next hour, I reply to some and dodge some.

"Now tell me what did they do to you? How many of them were there?"

I fight back the tears. She already fucking knows what they were doing to me. She has my medical records, she knows about the wounds that were found on me, found down there. Why does she need me to voice it out loud?

"I was, um," I clear my throat, my eyes to the floor so she doesn't see the tears building up in them, "Raped, and... hit? A lot, pretty much everyday," I sniffle and wipe a tear away from my lift eye.

She doesn't talk, waiting for me to go on. I want to go home.

"I was also drugged most of the time during it, so I couldn't really look them. And there were a lot of them. They were always wearing masks, so I don't...I don't..." my voice breaks.

"Okay, it's okay. I'm sorry, I know this must be very hard for you to talk about," for the first time her voice actually turns soft. "You're doing great, keep telling me everything that you can remember."

I pretend I'm thinking, and then I say, "That's all I can remember now."

I look at her and she's already looking at me. She's leaning against her desk, and she tells me, "If you know anything, and I mean, anything, this is your last chance to tell me. I'm not calling for you anymore. This is our last interrogation."

I hold her stare. I wish I could tell her everything I know. Because I know everything. I know the number of men who were involved in my kidnapping, the number of men of who worked for the ones kidnapping me, the number of men who raped and drugged me, the number of men who raped and drugged the rest of the girls, and I know all of their names, the color of their eyes and hair, the languages they speak, the cologne they wear, the tattoos on their bodies, of every single one of them. I could write a manual about the names they called me, draw and paint all the look on their faces as they assaulted me. I know every single detail by heart. I can easily tell her everything, but I won't.

And I absolutely, loathe myself for it.

"You tell the police anything and you're dead, understand? Or worse, we'll take you back."

I get chills down my back when I hear that man's voice reminding me of why I'm keeping silent.

"I can tell you about the girls who were with me," I tell her.

She shakes her head. "Celine, you're the only one who survived. That kind of information is not needed."

"But... what about their families? We should at least inform them—"

"I already told you many times, their families have probably already moved on. There's no need to bear them this type of news and ruin their day, alright?"

What? "But..."

"Celine, thank you for your information. We appreciate it. We'll try to work with the little information you've given me, and if there's any news, I'll contact you, alright?"

_______

At home, I lock the door of my bedroom, jump on my bed, and scream into my pillow.

I want them dead. I want them locked for a lifetime, just to get a taste of what they put me through. I fucking hate them, all of them.

I hate them for what they did to me, and I hate them for still being able to control me even after I was freed. I hate that I have to live with their shadows haunting me every hour of the day.

After I have an awkward silent dinner with my family, I go back upstairs, have a quick shower, put on my PJs, stare at my white canvas for half an hour with no motivation to paint—I've been doing that a lot lately, and then I turn off the lights and go to bed.

Before my head hits the pillow, I hear it; the very quiet rumble of a motorcycle taking off.

I hear it every night, right before I go to sleep. Weird.

I like to think that it's my guardian angel, taking its wings and retiring for the night after keeping an eye on me all day long.

I smile at the thought and let myself drift to sleep.

___________

Thoughts?🤍