The Edge Of Insanity

19-Anna

The sterile chill of the aquarium bites into my skin as I struggle against the leather belts, my mind a storm of rage and disbelief.

The words of the smug stranger-his callous talk of harvesting my DNA and the creation of an Étienne junior-swirl around me, turning my reality into a twisted nightmare.

Every time I try to calm myself, the image of Lulu-her touch, her seduction-twists the knife deeper.

What was once a vivid, almost comforting dream has become a grotesque violation, her presence now a haunting reminder of my helplessness.

The room is silent now, save for the faint hum of machinery and my own ragged breathing.

I lie there, trapped in a state of shock, the enormity of their plans for me sinking in like a heavy stone.

My thoughts spin out of control, my mind frantically trying to grasp what little reality I can hold onto.

As I lie there, the door creaks open again, and a harsh, fluorescent light floods the room.

My heart pounds, expecting another interrogator, another unwelcome reminder of my captivity.

Instead, a figure steps into the room, dressed in the same sterile white uniform, but their demeanor is different-tentative, almost cautious.

I squint against the glare, my eyes struggling to adjust. The figure moves closer, and I make out the face of a young woman, her features sharp and alert, yet softened by a flicker of empathy.

She carries a tray with a syringe and some cotton swabs, her gaze flicking nervously to the cameras mounted in the corners of the room.

She kneels beside me, her hands gentle but efficient as she checks my restraints.

"Étienne," she says, her voice barely above a whisper. "You need to calm down. You're going to hurt yourself."

"Anna?" I ask, my voice hoarse with emotion. "Why are you here?"

***

Three Years Earlier

It was a warm summer evening when I first met Anna. I was working as a chef in a small but bustling restaurant on my restaurant.

The open kitchen allowed me to interact with guests, a feature I had always enjoyed, as it gave me the chance to see their reactions to my dishes firsthand.

That evening, the restaurant was bathed in the golden hues of the setting sun, the air filled with the mingling scents of fresh herbs, garlic, and olive oil.

The clatter of cutlery and the hum of conversation created a lively backdrop as I plated the night's specials: bouillabaisse and ratatouille.

As I was finishing the presentation of a particularly intricate dish, I noticed her sitting at a corner table, a glass of wine in hand.

She was dressed casually, her hair cascading over her shoulders, her eyes taking in the ambiance with a mixture of curiosity and quiet appreciation.

Her presence seemed to light up the room, and I found myself glancing over more often than necessary.

When her appetizer was ready-a delicate tartlet of Provençal vegetables-I decided to deliver it myself.

I walked over to her table, a smile playing on my lips.

"Bonsoir," I greeted her, setting the dish down with a flourish. "I hope you enjoy this. It's one of my favorites."

She looked up, a hint of surprise in her eyes, followed by a warm smile.