He dragged me through the forest, across the lawn, back into the mansion. His silence was worse than shouting—cold, controlled, furious in a way that made my stomach twist.
When the door closed behind us, the sound echoed like a judgment.
He pushed me into the nearest room—his study, maybe—and locked the door. My legs trembled where I stood.
"I'm… I'm sorry," I whispered, voice breaking. "I was scared, I didn't know what to do—please, I'm sorry—"
He unbuckled his belt slowly. Calmly.
Not in lust.
Not in cruelty for pleasure.
But in anger.
Pure, chilling anger.
"I wasn't punishing you before," he said, voice low, steady. "I was giving you trust."
My breath caught in my throat.
"This…" he lifted the belt, "is punishment."
My chest tightened. "Please—please, I won't run again—"
"You will," he said sharply. "Because you already did."
I shook my head violently, tears welling. "Please—I'm sorry, I'm—"
He didn't stop.
Not when I begged.
Not when I cried.
The strikes weren't meant to torture—they were meant to teach. To remind me of the cage I had tried to escape. Each one stung sharp, forcing me to gasp, but he kept going until my legs nearly buckled.
When he finally stopped, his breathing was calm. Mine was broken.
"You failed," he said softly. "And I don't tolerate failure."
I wiped my tears with trembling fingers.
"And now," he continued, stepping closer, "you stay where I put you."
His hand gripped my arm again, firm, unyielding.
My voice cracked. "Please don't take me back to the basement…"
"Alright, I'll give you a chance" he said. "But know this,you don't deserve that comfort anymore."
______________
Few days later—
He hadn't locked me in the basement anymore. Instead, he'd given me something that felt almost like… mercy. A chance to "correct my mistake," as he phrased it. So I behaved. I watched the TV he allowed me, I ate what he gave me, and every evening he sat across from me as if we were some strange, twisted version of a household.
It seemed that this was his main house. He came back to it every night after work, moving through the rooms with the ease of someone who truly owned them. Yet I never saw any sign of another person—no voices, no footsteps, no photographs. No family.
Only him.
And because I was always with him, only me.
I kept telling myself to be careful—he changed moods too unpredictably.
Tonight, during dinner, curiosity slipped out of me before I could swallow it back down.
"Do you… have any family?" I had asked, my voice small.
He didn't even look up from his plate. "No."
The word was blunt, unbothered. Then he added with a shrug, "Never knew who they were. Don't care."
That was it. No trace of sadness, no bitterness. Just emptiness. As if the lack of a past was nothing more than a misplaced object.
Later, after dinner, I quietly walked toward "my" room—if I could even call it that. The corridor was dim. I thought he had gone back to his study.
I was wrong.
A hand suddenly wrapped around the back of my neck—firm, commanding. He pulled me back against him, his breath hitting my shoulder. Before I could protest, his lips pressed against mine, stealing my breath, my balance, everything.
I tried to push him gently. "Why? W-wait—"
"No questions." His voice was smooth, final.
His hand slid higher along my thigh, fingers curling around my waist. Panic spiked through me.
"I—I'm on my period," I whispered quickly, hoping he'd stop.
He paused, just barely. "It should have ended by now."
"No," I said, breath trembling. "My health… it's not good. Sometimes it lasts longer."
He didn't believe me.
His hand moved again—downward, fingers curling at the edge of my panties. I flinched, trying to twist away, but he held me in place, pulling lightly to check—to feel.
He stilled.
A heartbeat later, his palm struck my cheek so hard my vision burst white. I crashed onto the floor, my knees scraping against the cold marble.
My ears rang. My breath shook. I didn't dare lift my head.
His voice dropped low—cold enough to hollow me out.
"What a disappointment."
He adjusted his sleeve and left without looking back.
The echo of his footsteps faded down the hall, and I stayed on the floor for a long moment, too scared to move. When I finally pushed myself up, my cheek still stung, throbbing with every heartbeat. I wiped my face, realizing my hands were shaking.
I made my way to my room slowly, silently. The hallway felt colder tonight, the walls tighter, the shadows deeper. There were too many questions circling my mind—questions I had no right to ask. He didn't want questions. He wanted obedience. But even obedience didn't feel safe.
I slipped into my room and locked the door, though I knew it wouldn't stop him if he wanted to enter.
____________________
Few moments later—
I lay on the bed, staring at the ceiling, unable to sleep. My mind kept replaying everything—his voice, the slap, the look on his face when he said disappointment. I curled up inside the blanket, wishing the walls would swallow me whole.
That's when I heard it.
A muffled thud. Then another. A dragging sound… like something heavy being pulled across the basement floor.
My heart dropped.
I crept toward my window and peeked out. The basement door was directly below, and two guards were dragging someone—no, some girl—by her arms. Her head lolled to the side, silver-white hair spilling like snow down her back.
Even from here, under the dim lights, I could see her skin.
Knitted stitches. Everywhere. Thick, dark threads pulled through pale flesh. Some were fresh, red and swollen. Others looked older. Her arms were dotted with burn marks—round, cruel circles that made my stomach twist.
She was… beautiful. A broken, porcelain kind of beautiful. The kind that hurt to look at.
They hauled her out of the basement like she was nothing more than a rag doll. My breath hitched, and I pressed my palm against the cold window, watching helplessly.
As they reached the yard, her eyes fluttered open—wide, wild, filled with a kind of terror that wasn't new. She moved suddenly, violently, slipping her wrist just enough to twist the guard's grip. He stumbled.
She stole the gun from his belt so quickly I barely saw how.
Before the other guard could shout, before anyone could react—she lifted it to her own head.
My scream never made it out of my throat.
A single crack tore through the estate.
She crumpled instantly, her hair spreading like white silk on the grass. For a moment, the world froze. The guards yelled, scattering, panicking. Someone ran to call him.
I sank onto the floor, trembling uncontrollably.
She didn't run from him.
She ran from living.
And suddenly, the stitched girl became a warning—silent, bloody, absolute.
If I made another mistake…
If I tried to escape again…
That could be me.