When we arrived at the lake house, the world around us seemed to still. The air was thick with silence, the kind that presses against your skin like a warning. Trees stood tall and still, as if holding their breath, and the lake shimmered under the gray clouds above, cold and distant. It was beautiful in a haunting way, like a postcard from somewhere you're never supposed to visit.
He opened the door and gestured for me to enter. I hesitated. Something in the air felt wrong, but I stepped inside anyway. The scent of cedarwood lingered in the walls, mixed with something sharper, like rust—or fear. The room was dim, lit only by the soft glow from the windows. A large bed sat in the middle, its white sheets pristine and almost mocking.
"Lie down," he said, his voice devoid of warmth.
I looked at him, searching for something human in his eyes. There was nothing. Only cold control. I moved to the bed and lay down slowly, trying to calm the growing dread clawing at my chest.
He disappeared through a side door, leaving me alone with my thoughts and the whisper of the wind outside. My fingers gripped the edges of the mattress. Every part of me wanted to run, but where would I go? How far could I get?
When he returned, the chains clinked in his hands like the sound of doom. Two thick, metal restraints. My heart dropped.
"Please," I whispered, sitting up slightly. "You don't have to do this."
But he wasn't listening. Or maybe he was, and he simply didn't care. He moved toward me with steady steps, eyes dark with something I couldn't name. He chained my wrists to the headboard first—tight, unrelenting—then my ankles. The metal was icy against my skin, biting in without mercy.
I was trapped.
And then he climbed onto the bed.
I begged. I screamed. My voice cracked and bled into the air like a bird hitting glass. But he didn't stop. His movements were rough, every touch laced with domination rather than desire. Pain blossomed instantly, sharp and deep. My body jerked against the restraints, trying to escape a reality that felt like a nightmare.
"Stop! Please!" I cried, my voice shattering into sobs. But he was deaf to my pain.
The room spun around me. I felt my own blood, warm and terrifying, slipping down my thighs. Each thrust was agony, and the weight of him felt like being buried alive. My body convulsed in response to the trauma, but still, he continued—like a storm tearing through a village already in ruins.
I thought I was going to die. Not figuratively. Not as a dramatic phrase. Truly, deeply—I felt death's breath against my face. My vision blurred, blackness closing in at the edges. My heart raced and stuttered. And still, he didn't stop.
And in those moments, my mind left me.
I floated above it all. Detached. Watching myself cry, scream, bleed. My spirit curled up in a corner, trying not to look. I saw death then, not as a monster, but as a quiet friend, reaching out a hand.
"Come," he seemed to say. "I'll end it."
But I didn't take his hand. Something in me refused.
When he finally finished, he unchained me without a word. My limbs fell limp to the bed, shaking and sore. I couldn't move. I didn't want to. The sheets were stained—white no longer. My body was bruised, my soul quieter than it had ever been.
He left the room, and I was alone again.
Alone with the pain.
Alone with the memory of what he'd taken.
Alone with the sound of my own breathing, ragged and shallow.
I don't know how long I lay there. Time had no meaning anymore. Eventually, I curled into myself, trembling, not from cold—but from something deeper.
I hated him.
But I hated myself more—for not running, for not fighting harder, for trusting him even for a second.
The girl who walked into that lake house had died. And the woman left behind didn't know who she was anymore.
---
The hours that followed blurred into a haze of agony and silence. The world outside moved on while I stayed frozen in place. The lake, visible through the cracked windowpane, mocked me with its calm. I stared at it until my vision went blank, too numb to cry.
The sound of footsteps dragged me back. They were slow. Measured. He returned like nothing had happened. He carried a tray with a bowl of soup, a bottle of water, and a small cloth.
He placed it on the side table and looked down at me with unreadable eyes.
"You should eat," he said flatly.
I didn't move. My body ached, and my mind was too broken to process the idea of food.
When I didn't respond, he sighed and turned to leave.
That was it. No apology. No remorse. Just calm indifference.
When the door shut behind him again, something inside me cracked. I crawled off the bed, dragging myself to the bathroom. I nearly collapsed trying to stand under the shower. The water was cold, but it didn't matter. Nothing mattered. I scrubbed my skin until it turned raw, trying to wash away the scent of him, the memory of him. But it clung to me.
Blood mixed with water, circling the drain in a cruel dance.
Afterward, I wrapped myself in a towel and stood before the mirror. The reflection didn't look like me. Hollow eyes. Swollen lips. Bruises blooming like flowers across my thighs and ribs. I touched my cheek and flinched.
And then I broke.
The sobs came without warning, tearing through me like a storm. I collapsed to the cold tile floor, my cries muffled by the towel clutched to my mouth. No one could hear me here. No one would come.
But I screamed anyway.
---
Days passed. Or maybe it was one long day stretched into eternity. He brought food, medicine, silence. Sometimes he watched me as I ate, sometimes he didn't come at all. The silence between us grew louder than any scream I'd let out.
And every time I looked at him, I saw not just the man who hurt me—but the one who still had control.
I started to journal. On the back of old receipts, napkins, even the inside of a cereal box I found in the cabinet. Anything to remind myself I was still here. Still thinking. Still human.
Each night, I stared at the ceiling, wondering what had made him this way. And if I could ever find a way to make him stop.
I wasn't sure if I wanted justice.
Or revenge.
But I knew one thing: I'd survive. Somehow.
Even if surviving meant becoming something else.
---
He came into the room one night with wine and said nothing. He sat at the edge of the bed where I lay still. I didn't flinch anymore.
"You're strong," he said, almost admiringly. "Most would have begged to leave by now."
I looked at him, my voice a whisper: "I did."
His lips curved into a dark smile. "Not like you meant it."
I turned away. I refused to give him the satisfaction of my fear.
Because the moment I stopped fearing him… was the moment I started planning.
Planning for the day this cage would break.
Planning for the day he would bleed.
Planning for the day I would become the thing that haunted him.
And when that day came, he wouldn't see it coming.
Because pain dressed in pleasure? He taught me that.
But power dressed in silence? That's what I would teach him....