Awake (Book 3)

Four

Oh, God.

            Real pain was something you didn’t just forget, and I had been more than reminded of that in the last six months. My mother bestowed upon me ample opportunities to experience real pain. That was why I should have been able to endure this. I should have been able to take it.

            But it just hurt. It hurt so bad.

            Blood dripped from my mouth, winding down my chin. The grinning Prophet in front of me flexed his fingers and cracked his knuckles, ready to deck my face one more time. I strained at the bonds, but no use. I was shackled tight. Lifting my leaden head, I locked eyes with Lucille through the window into the other room, taking in her cold expression and unfeeling eyes. Of course I’d known she didn’t really love me, no matter how wild I made my fantasies to be. But this far surpassed the cruelty I believed her capable of.

            This was insane.

            Psychopathic.

            Inhumane.

            “Stop it,” I gasped, directing my words toward my mother, even though only the Prophet could hear me. “Please. Stop.”

            My mother’s lips curved up into the barest of smiles, and the Prophet only laughed.

            “Stop?” he jeered. “Stop? Why, I’ve only just gotten started. To know that you, Ellie Armstrong . . . to know that you’re alive . . . well, I’m going to enjoy every moment of this.”

            Still I didn’t pay him much attention. I focused on my own inner endurance, maintaining the self-drive I needed to get through this.

            Doesn’t matter what has happened, and it doesn’t matter what hasn’t happened. All that matters is what’s happening right now.

            The Prophet rammed his foot into my gut, and my ribs rattled. I sucked in an agonizing breath of air as spots danced in my vision.

            “You can’t . . . break me,” I gasped. “I won’t . . . let you.”

            He smirked. “Can’t break what’s already broken, sweetheart.”

            I spat a glob of blood on his shoe. “Don’t call me that.”

            His grimy hands grabbed my cheeks, forcing my face up to his. Pain shot up my jaw, spearing through my head. “I’ll call you whatever I like, you little bitch.” He wound a fist back and plowed it into my head. Dizziness welled inside of me.

            The door to the dank room opened, revealing my mother. With her hands folded behind her back and a stern expression darkening her face, she was more of a psychopathic torturer than anything else. And definitely not my mother.

            I wonder if she ever really was.

            “Ellie, darling, you have to fight back if you don’t want to end up all bloody,” she crooned, stopping beside the Prophet. “You’re much too soft.”

            I glared at her through my one good eye, since the other was swollen shut. “I’m not a monster. I’ll never be what you’re trying to make me.”

            Lucille raised an eyebrow, stepping closer. One manicured nail trailed down my bruised cheek. “Why, dear, I said nothing about wanting to make you a monster. I thought our objective was to kill Dr. Edmund. How do you expect to do that when you can’t even oppose a simple, stupid little Prophet?”