Witness

48. Chelsea

Fuck. 

"Damien?" I groan. 

I lift myself from the bed. 

How did I get here? How did I fall asleep again? 

My mouth tastes like fucking garbage. 

The last thing I remember... "Damien?" 

He was in here. He hit me, again, because he hates when I talk back to him. And then he left, he walked out of the door, and... 

I look over at the windowsill, one of the three bottles of water open, barely a sip gone. I took one tiny little drink, and passed out. 

Drugged.

"Real fucking classy, Damien!" I shout. "You psychopath!" 

It could've been hours now. It's still dark outside and there are no sounds to be heard outside of this room (soundproof? I wouldn't put it past him) so it can't have been too long. It's not morning, at least. 

Kaiden's got to be worried now. Tearing out his own hair anxious. 

I bet he's called Noah. I better Madelaine is freaking out. I wonder whether anybody has called my mum to tell her why I'm not home. 

Hopefully she thinks I'm at Kaiden's. Blissfully unaware, for the better. She's not exactly known for her mental stability when it comes to family matters. 

For a moment, I'm thankful to have so many people who care about me, who realise it's unusual when they don't hear from me for a few hours. Fuck, and if I'm here for more than a few days, I hope Madelaine waters my fucking plants. I'll kill Maddie myself if she lets my plants die. 

I try to stand but drop down onto my knees with a thud. "Argh-" I clutch at my temples, squeeze my eyes closed. My head pounds. A second later, the pain is gone. I release a breath and stand back up on wobbly legs. 

"Fuck you," I murmur to nobody, mouth gritty, "and your drugged fucking water. Psycho."

I find my footing again as I walk around the room, combing my hair through my hands and rubbing the eyeliner I know has smudged under my eyes away. The usual motions come naturally; look under the bed, try to open the locked windows, call to Vik, and try the locked door-

But it's not locked. 

The click is as clear as day when I press the handle down. No lock, no latch, nothing separating me from the other side of this God-awful white room. 

It's a trick. 

It's got to be. 

Damien's on the other side holding that pistol, waiting for me to screw up, to defy him somehow so that he doesn't feel guilty when he finally does kill me. 

I let go of the door handle and take three steps back. 

"Hello?" I call. 

Of course nobody answers. 

There's a small possibility that one of them just forgot to lock the door, that Vik feels sorry for me and thinks I shouldn't be here again, or that Damien's out of his mind, batshit crazy and just forgot to lock it whenever he last came to check on me and realised I passed out. 

(Which isn't a violating thought at all.)

I walk over slowly, just in case, and press the handle down as quietly as I possibly can. 

The door creaks as I pull it open just far enough to peak through, seeing nothing but the soulless paintings lining the hallway walls and the awful burgundy carpet. No Vik, no Damien, nobody else keeping watch of me.