The next morning, I wake up alone in bed. No chain, no Adam. Just soft pillows and a comforting blanket. There are a few seconds where I really believe that I've dreamt up the past weeks in some sick nightmare. A moment surveying my surroundings brings me back. 

I jump out of bed and hurry to the door, only to find it locked from the outside. Of course, it's fucking locked. Because why wouldn't it be? How many doors in this house lock on both sides? Why can't I for once get a break? 

I search the room, not counting on finding a way out, but looking for something to do before I'm let out. As I comb through everything, I expect to notice some sinister meaning behind every item. Some psychological textbooks among his classics. No. A messed up how-to guide passed down from his parents. No. Mutilated animal parts? No, thankfully. 

While rummaging, I come across a framed photo. I pick it up, having to confirm to myself that I'm seeing it correctly. It's the photo taken from my room. I've known he was the one in my room, so why did it surprise me to find it here? 

A click from behind me startles me into setting it back where it came from. By the time I'm turned towards the door, Adam is already against the frame watching me with curiosity. 

"I—I'm sorry. I'm just... I didn't—I didn't mean to—to snoop. It's not—" 

"Don't worry about it, babe. It's cool. You have as much right to this stuff as I do." 

I nod, confused as hell, but unsure why. 

After a moment of silence, he taps his fingers against the wood and pushes himself backward. "The bathroom is yours. Mom went to the store, so it's just the two of us. I made pancakes, so hurry down, okay?" 

I make my way to the bathroom and use the toilet before washing my hands and picking my toothbrush out of the cup with the others. That's another minor thing I can't stand. In my home with my parents, we used dividers for cleanliness. No, we use them. I'm going back. I'm not staying here. 

I push the thought away as I finish brushing my teeth and washing my face. It was an honest slip-up. This isn't my home. I won't be here for much longer. It's not my fault. 

With nowhere else to try and go, I join him downstairs. The table is set, and Adam has both arms full of ingredients to put away. Without putting any of it down, he walks up and gives me a peck on the lips. "Go ahead and sit down. I'll be there as soon as I finish cleaning up." 

I sit where he asks with an absent nod. After everything is away, he sets a plate in front of me and takes the seat to my left. Thankfully, he doesn't try to make me talk. I don't know if I could handle it. My mind is reeling. This feels all too familiar. It shouldn't feel like a quiet morning breakfast. I shouldn't be comfortable. 

Half the food disappears in almost no time, and Adam sets his hand palm-up on the table in front of me. My eyes drift from his hand to his face as he stares me down with an eerie look trying to compel me to take his hand. I hesitate, but his glare makes me obey. 

He tightens the pressure around my hand the moment he has it and goes back to his plate. My stomach tightens and my appetite disappears. I push my food around my plate, unable to take another bite. 

A phone in the room over buzzes and Adam jumps out of his seat to find it. "That's probably Mom." 

As soon as he moves from the chair, the way to the front door opens. I want to go then and there, but I force myself to wait until he's out of the room. Once he's out of sight, I'm out of my chair, fumbling with the lock. It clicks—yes, finally—and I throw it open.

Past the threshold, the first door I reach has too many locks that I can't open, so I pass it and run through the garage instead. I reach the garage door button and slam my hand onto it, my heart racing, body shaking, and my lungs struggling to take in a breath. The door starts a slow ascent, but instead of elation, I fill with fear. It's slow—it's going too slow—and it's so loud. 

"Raiden? Raiden! Get back here!" 

It's not nearly high enough yet, but I sink onto my hands and knees, hoping that I can get low enough anyway. It's not enough. A hand grabs onto the back of my neck and I choke back a sob. 

"No, no, no, please no, please I'm so sorry!" 

His hand tightens around my neck, pulling me back and slamming my face against the stopped metal door. Blood pours out of my nose, but I don't think it's broken. My hands fly up to my face and won't stop shaking as they cover in my own blood. 

After he presses the button to close the door, his grip tightens around my neck and collar as he drags me back into my prison. My will to fight back disappears along with my chance of freedom, but that doesn't stop me from blubbering out nonsense to him. 

"Shut up," he snaps, dropping me in the middle of the kitchen. The room spins as my head smacks against the hard floor. All I can do is keep my hands on my bleeding nose and close my eyes tight so I don't cry. 

"I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry. I don't know what—don't—don't know what I was doing. Please—please forgive me. It won't happen again, I swear!" 

"I said shut up." He pushes my legs down and sits on top of me, straddling my waist. The sudden pressure makes me open my eyes to a serrated kitchen knife in his hands. 

Screams get caught in my throat and I push against his chest, smearing my blood against his shirt. Both of my wrists are collected in one hand and pressed down above my head as he shushes me. 

"Please don't hurt me..." 

"It's a little late for that, boo." I shudder at the sadistic use of that stupid nickname. Bringing the knife under my neck, he gives me a sick smile and traces the tip over my skin. 

The sensation makes my body shake, and I compulsively swallow the lump in my throat. He drags it to my collarbone, putting pressure down and breaking the skin. Pain forces me back into fight or flight mode, but Adam still has a tight grip on me, not letting me move an inch. 

"Please stop..." Blood drips from the cut to the ground, some of it getting in my hair. He pulls the knife out slowly, then slashes it against my upper arm. Through gritted teeth, I hold back a scream as tears run down my face. "Adam, please, I'll be good—I'll be so good." 

All he does is continue to ignore me and find new places to make me bleed. With him no longer listening, I lie there and cry, nothing left I can do. 

By the time he decides he's done, my entire body is burning. There's an ache in my flesh I can't stand just below the surface of each cut. My entire upper body is covered with blood, and the floor below me is forming a puddle. 

He stands up, slick with sweat and blood. The knife is traded for a cloth, and he picks up his phone once the blood is off it, sending out a text before returning his attention to me. 

"Stand up." 

I try, but not fast enough for him. I'm only onto my hands and knees before he sends his foot up into my side, knocking me back down. 

"Stand up, before I become even more pissed." 

I push past the pain and force myself to my feet. "I'm up, I'm up." 

His hand clamps around my arm, fingers digging into several cuts, and he drags me upstairs. He pulls the attic door down with one hand, the other still strong around me. Once it's down, he jerks me back up the stairs and shoves me onto the mattress. The shackle is replaced around my ankle, and he leaves without a word to me, though I can hear him mumbling to himself about having to clean up the mess I made. 

The blood on my skin is slowly starting to dry, so I don't try to clean anything off of me. Once the bleeding stops, I'll be able to clean myself, but I don't want to disturb anything until then. 

But...what does this mean for me now? He'll never let me near that door again. That was my last chance and I blew it. 

Why did I do that? He trusted me. Maybe if I'd waited a little bit longer, it would've worked. I can't keep doing this. I need to wait until I'm 100% sure I can make it out. Until then, I need to lie low and gain back his trust. His trust that I just completely shattered. 

I lie back against the mattress, ignoring the pain and thinking of how I can fix the damage I just caused.