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Chapter 21

When I wake the next morning, it takes me a second to process what had happened last night as I shift up onto my side, glancing over at Christian. He's under the sheets as well, fast asleep, an arm draped over his eyes and forehead.

When I turn to look over at the alarm clock, I see its eight-thirty. He usually leaves before that time for work. Then I remember that it's the weekend now, and that's probably why he's sleeping in. It's a Saturday, I think. He doesn't work on Saturday's or Sundays.

I sit up fully, pushing both feet and legs out of the sheets, extricating my way off the bed without managing to wake him. I stand, shaking from head to toe at the cold draft in the room. Last night is still so confusing to me. I feel ashamed at what I let happen, something I probably shouldn't have in the first place. I let us kiss and make-out and there was a part of me, a very strange sick irrational part of me, that actually enjoyed it. I don't understand how that can be at all. The only rational explanation that I can come up with is that I'm confused.

It's been a very overwhelming experience being stuck here, and clearly I'm not thinking straight. I know that once I get out, things will become clearer and more rational. It's just being stuck in this house and being stuck with him that is doing this to me. I feel like I'm going insane due to being here, and once I get out, my head will be cleared and I won't be so confused.

I'm thankful that I only agreed to just kissing, though. I know if I had allowed us to do more, if he hadn't been as respectful and patient, then I would be feeling way worse and guilty than I do now.

I listen for the sounds of Christian waking once I slip out of his bedroom, yet the penthouse still remains silent.

I head up the stairs to the room where the dresser is where he put all the clothes he brought for me inside it, closing it quietly before getting changed hastily into a fresh pair of clothes. By the time I'm done, reopening the door, I still can't hear him awake and moving about. He must be really tired this morning.

I step out along the narrow hallway, my eyes landing on a shut door that I haven't looked into before. Would he mind if I opened it and did look inside it or would he be annoyed I'm snooping around? Do I even truly care what he thinks?

Deciding to take my chances, I slip my fingers around the doorknob, twisting the door open. He hasn't bothered to lock the room up, so surely there can't be anything in there he doesn't want me to see, could there? He would have locked it up otherwise in case I tried to look in the room.

I start to feel as if I'm in a heroine in a horror movie as I slowly peek around the crack of the door, finding it well lit and open with no curtains covering the window. There's no creepy bodies or anything horrific by the looks of things, so I figure I'm safe.

It's a room in his house that I haven't looked in yet, on the upper floor. It must be a spare room that he uses as his own personal gym, because I see there's a treadmill standing against the wall, as well as a boxing bag hanging from the ceiling. Other things stacked around the floor as well, like old newspapers, magazines, and shoe-boxes; probably some items he couldn't figure out where to put in his penthouse so he used the room as storage.

He hasn't told me not to step into this room or not go looking around his house so I figure he won't mind that I am. There's a shoe-box sitting close by the entryway, the cardboard not squished in like all the others. My curiosity getting the better of me, I kneel down near it, leaning against the wall while opening the box carefully.

I can't see anything important inside. Just what looks like old newspaper clippings and a few other things. They obviously mean something to him, though; He's taken care to stack all the newspaper clippings neatly on top of the contents underneath so they won't get torn. He obviously doesn't want them to get damaged. When I pick one at random, holding it up to my eyes carefully with my thumb and forefinger at the corner, reading the headline, I feel my heart rate increase.

YOUNG BOY IN CRITICAL CONDITION AFTER BEING LEFT STANDING UNDER SCALDING HOT SHOWER

These are all about him, I realize. He was that young boy and he's bothered to keep all the newspaper articles about what happened to himself when he was little. Why would he want to collect them, though? Surely he wouldn't want them as reminders, of something so bad and painful that had happened to him? Or maybe he does?

I put the newspaper cutting where I found it, rummaging around in the box. I know it's probably wrong, what I'm doing, and if he so happened to wake and come up here to find me, he'll more than likely be mad. But I'm curious and more than a little sickly fascinated.

There's a patch of light blue fabric that seems to be off a quilt or a young child's blanket. You can tell it's old, because it smells and dust clings to it. The edges are uneven and singed slightly, as if someone held a cigarette lighter to it, intending to catch it on fire. There's even some little dots and specks of something red on it, like paint, which confuses me into what it is, until it kind of dawns onto me. Blood. There's specks of old, dried blood on the patch of the blanket. His blood?

My stomach churning in uneasiness, I search around again, my fingers landing on something that feels scarily enough like thick human hair. When I pull it out, I realize with horror that that is exactly what it is. It is a lock of human hair; Long and thick and a dark brown, held together by what seems to be old sticky tape looped around the ends. Why the hell would he have human hair in a box? Who does the lock of hair belong to? Can he be anymore serial killer right now?

Chucking it back into the box with disgust, I spot something else that captures my attention.

There's a photograph, fairly old and crinkled at the edges. I lift it up, scrutinizing it curiously. It's a young woman, about in her early twenties; her stomach engorged and swollen because she's in in the late stages of pregnancy. When I turn it over to glance at the white backing, I see there's writing. Someone's bothered to write on it, probably even Christian himself.

Ella, 1982.

Who is she and why would Christian have a picture of her kept away? Is she the woman who the lock of hair belongs to?

All of this, the patch of blanket with the dots of blood, the lock of hair, and the photo especially... they must be something considered deeply special and meaningful to him if he's placed them all securely in an old shoe-box for safekeeping.

I look at her face again, at the clothes she is wearing, this heavily pregnant young woman. Her hair is dark brown and I realize how much I almost look like her. Her nose seems similarly shaped to mine, her eyes are even the same shade as mine, and her brunette hair and the shape of her pale face. Who is she? Why the fuck does she look so much like me? Is that a secret reason as to why he chose to have me here? To do this to me? Because I look like this woman? This-

Oh, shit!

I hear the floorboards creak out in the hallway as footsteps move stealthily along the carpet, but by the time I stand, my knees cracking, it's already far too late and I've been caught out in the act. I spin around towards the doorway warily, my eyes landing on Christian from where he stands, fully awake now, dressed in black jeans and a sky blue button-up business shirt. His gray eyes dart around the room warily before they land back onto me. I have no idea what he is thinking at all or what he will do now that he's caught me in the room, going through his things. But then his eyes drop to the photograph I'm still holding clenched in my fingers, his expression unreadable. I don't know whether he's mad at all.

"I woke and noticed you were gone from the bed. I didn't expect you to be up here?" I feel my body loosen at the tone of his voice. He doesn't sound angry at all, at the very least.

"I... I was just curious," I stammer, feeling like a kid being caught on doing something wrong. Then again, why should I feel guilty? He should have locked the door if he didn't want me in here. "I realized that I haven't been in this room before."

"Well, sorry to disappoint you, but it isn't really much. I just use it as both a storage room and a gym." His eyes focus on the photograph I'm still holding again. "That was my mother," he says quietly, jerking his chin towards it. "It's the only photograph I have of her. She was pregnant with me in it."

His mother? Oh. I guess that explains it then.

I peer down at the photo of the young woman again, seeing it immediately with brand new eyes. She was the one that made him stand under the shower, she was the reason he sustained such severe burns to his body. She's the reason he is how he is today. And she looks a lot like me...

"She seemed very young when she had you?"

"I think she was around nineteen." I watch him nervously when he comes closer, then he bends down, looking through the box himself. I'm still waiting for something to happen. For an explosion of anger, even. "This was my blanket," he explains, his fingers stroking that dirty patch of fabric, almost tenderly. "And with those cuttings, as you can see... I made the newspaper."

I'm still horrified by the lock of hair in there. "I saw a lock of hair in there?" I say, unable to conceal my horror. "Whose hair is it? Who does it belong to?"

It don't think he is very happy with me asking. He takes the photo out from my hand forcefully, shoving it back into the box without even one glance at it. He stows the lid back on the box roughly. "It was my mother's," he says tersely.

"Why does she look so much like me?" I demand, unable to shake the fear out of my voice. "Your mother? She looks a lot like me? Brunette hair, blue eyes? Same head shape and facial structure?"

His eyes flash with what seems to be anger and I step back instinctively when he stands, facing me. "You're nothing like her, Anastasia." His voice is harsh and loud, a tone I don't think I have ever heard from him before, not while being here as long as I have. "You may have the same hair and eye color, yes. But the woman, she was nothing more than an abusive bitch. You're nothing like her." He inhales in shakily, closing his eyes for a moment. When he reopens them again to fix his stare onto me, I'm relieved that his anger has gone. His eyes shine with remorse, with shame over losing his temper on me. "Now I thought that we could go out for a drive today," he says, making his tone gentler and even. "The weathers meant to be nice and I know that we could both do some good in getting out of the house for a while. I'll meet you downstairs once you're ready."

I say nothing as I watch him leave the room, my body shaking by his outburst. I don't understand why he got so angry, because it's true, isn't it? I do look very similar to her in that photo, and it must have been why he chose to do this to me. He must be looking for someone to replace his mother or... I don't know.

I'm so shaken that it takes me a moment too late for his words to properly sink in. He wants to take me out for a drive? While I feel pleased about that, it confuses me. It's the early morning hours, daytime. Last time he took me out, he was overly paranoid that a police car was following us. Why would he agree to take me for a drive now unless... he's expecting to get caught and he doesn't care anymore now? Either way, his true intentions don't matter right now. What matters is that he's letting me get out of the enclosure of his penthouse for a few hours.

When I get downstairs, I find him sitting on the couch, waiting for me. There's a pair of brand new, unworn shoes across from him. Women shoes. Sandals.

"I thought you might need some shoes to wear," he mutters quietly, not quite looking in my eyes. He watches his hands as he clenches and opens them repetitively. I know it's because he still feels guilty over his outburst in front of me. "I'm assuming it would be a little suspicious if I let you walk around without a pair of shoes on, wouldn't it?"

I sit down opposite him, dragging the sandals towards my feet. Surprisingly, they are a perfect fit. They don't pinch or feel uncomfortable. Christian clearly knows even my foot size. "Thanks but... where are we going for a drive to?" I ask nervously, still in disbelief. "Last time you let me, you were only keen on taking me for drives when it wasn't daylight and when the traffic wasn't busy because you didn't want to risk anyone seeing me in your car with you?"

"Yes, well. It doesn't really matter anymore if anyone sees you or recognizes you," he says evasively. "You won't be in my car for long anyway."

There is something distant and emotionless in his tone that frightens me. Why would he not care about being cautious anymore? And what does he mean when he says that I won't be in his car for very long? My skin prickles with suspicion and fear. Is he going to do something to me once we reach our destination? Does he intend to do something to me? Dispose of me? Kill me?

"What do you mean, Christian?" I ask cautiously, though I'm not entirely sure I want to even know the answer. "Why doesn't it matter anymore if anyone recognizes me? Why wouldn't I be in your car for long?"

He doesn't answer me which makes me feel even more apprehensive. He simply shakes his head and stands, pulling a set of car keys out from his trouser pocket. "Let's go, Anastasia. We really have to hurry before I change my mind."

I stand, but I don't know whether I want to leave with him or not. Something bad is going to happen, and I can almost sense it. He's going to do something.

"What about my wrist? Aren't you going to do what you did before with the cable tie? What if I try to run off and escape?"

Christian shows me his back while he slides the key card into the elevator. He steps in, and then he holds his hand in between the self-closing doors to stop the movement so I can get in with him. I still don't want to, but I do anyway, forcing my legs to move as I stand beside him, my heart racing. I know that something bad is happening, and I can't shake that awful feeling.

I feel sick and tense by the time the elevators open on the ground floor. He lets me walk out first, and it's strange, not being restricted to his wrist by a cable tie. It feels so strange and wrong that I even almost start to miss it.

I follow Christian towards one of his cars, falling behind. I could easily make a run for it, right now. I could dart off into another direction, running through the garage exit while screaming at the top of my lungs to anybody who hears me. Would he even bother to stop me? Would he even follow? Only I don't. Something forces me to oblige, to be good.

He unlocks the doors and I climb inside, fastening my seat belt. Christian clicks his seat belt on, adjusts the mirrors, and then he starts the car, reversing out of the driveway. The instance we get outside of the garage, I feel like an alien person, someone who has arrived on this foreign and unknown planet. It's sunny this morning and the instance the sun reflects in my eyes, I'm blinded momentarily from the lack of it these past few weeks. It's busy, as it's a weekend, and I'm astonished by all the people out on the streets, walking.

There are so many people, people everywhere. Wrapped up in their own private daily worlds without a care in the world. So many people that could hear me shout for help, hear me scream.

It's amazing how when something like this happens to you, you learn never to take these things for granted ever again. And it's so beautiful, everything is so beautiful and busy and bursting with color. I just wish I knew what was happening and what Christian intends to do with me.

When he signals and parks on the side of the street, I feel as if a cold ice block has slivered through my stomach. I turn my head to look at him, only Christian isn't looking my way. He is staring at something across the street, his eyes squinted in the light, his forehead creased. His expression is impossible to work out, but it seems as if a million thoughts are whirling by in his head. When he finally turns to look at me, he gives me a small smile that's both kindly reassuring and sad, his eyes crinkling at the corners.

"See that phone booth over there, Anastasia," he mutters quietly, pointing it out to me. I follow his gaze and I see it, surely enough. A lone phone booth with no one using it. I don't understand why he is bothering to point it out to me though, but I get my answer when he continues. "I want you to go over to it and call the police. I'll just sit here and wait."

As his words form and make sense into my brain, making me panic, I glance at him again in wide-eyed disbelief, discovering him watching me. "Call the police?" I repeat, my voice croaky. "Why... why would you want me to call the police, Christian?"

I can't tell whether this is a test or not. Is he testing me? Is this a big joke to him?

His eyes search mine for a moment, the smile fading from his lips. I realize he looks utterly desperate. Desperate and broken. "You know why and I'm so sorry," he says, in a barely audible voice. "This can't go on. I think it's been going on long enough, wouldn't you?" He glances away from me for a moment, his gray eyes moistening. He looks suddenly so empty, so... hollow. "This is what I deserve," he whispers unevenly, shaking his head. "I deserve this for what I've done to you."

"You're actually letting me go?" The realization slowly permeates through all the shock. "You're letting me get out of this car and leave? How... how can I believe you?"

"I am letting you go, and you can believe me. It's true." He smiles at me but it doesn't touch his eyes. His eyes remain wet, hollow. Shameful. "I realize what I've done now. I wanted you to... to love me, but not like this. Never like this." Reaching an arm behind his seat, he pulls something out to hand it to me. It's the handbag I took to the club. My handbag and phone. He truly is letting me go. "You need to go. I'm so sorry for everything."

I do it before it gets too late. Ignoring my impulse to comfort him, to thank him, I throw off my seat belt and wrench the door open, still too stunned and in shock to properly process it all, of what he's doing, how he's letting me go.

The sun hits my skin, warming me, as I step out onto the pavement. I don't turn to look inside the car as I slam the door shut. He's letting me go. I'm free, and I can feel the sun again and I'm now like everyone else. Free, walking down the street. I don't even realize I'm crying out of sheer relief and happiness until I feel the tears course down my cheeks freely. How I feel, all the sensations and happiness... it's indescribable, bursting out from my bones all at once.

I'm free. No more being stuck confined and restricted to the walls of his penthouse.

I'm free.

It's only when I reach the end of the street that I turn back to look behind my shoulder at the car. Christian's still sitting in it, waiting. I can hardly make his face out properly in the glare of the sun reflecting on the windshield, through the tinted windows. But I know what I'll do, and I don't care if he believes that I should, that he deserves it for what he's done. In my eyes, he doesn't deserve to go to jail or to be taken away by the police, not anymore. Now that I've gotten to know him as a person and have liked who he is, calling the police and doing what he suggests is something I would never consider. Maybe it's a strange psychological effect of being alienated for weeks with only him as a person to interact with, or maybe it's something to do with my personal feelings and how I truly feel for him. What I feel, it's complicated.

But I don't make it over to the phone booth. I don't end up calling the police.

I am so nervous that it's going to be a disappointment due to the direction I've taken it, but things will happen in the next chapter. This is where the Beauty and The Beast inspiration comes into it; Something will happen, and Ana will be back. Just hope you'll bear with me :-)