The Tourist (Sold #1)

7. Chloe

CHAPTER 7

Chloe

I ’m lying on a mattress, but it’s not the threadbare one in my prison cell. The springs aren’t poking into my body like accusing fingers, with each sharp jab reminding of my grim reality.

As my eyes flicker open, I notice the clinically clean walls and the sound of machines beeping around me. I’m caught between consciousness and the murky depths of oblivion where the horrors of my recent past haunt me with vivid, unrelenting flashes.

Am I still a prisoner?

I recall the feel of Diego's strong arms around me. It’s a memory that, for a brief moment, replaces the pain.

But then I feel the cold grip of metal handcuffs securing me to the bed, and I’m catapulted back to the early days of my captivity—locked in a cell with the stench of decay surrounding me.

The memory is so vivid and acutely painful that it wrenches a whimper from my throat. I’m locked in a nightmare with no hope of escape as the memories continue to haunt me.

"Stay still, and it'll be over soon," a gruff voice commands, heavy with malice.

My heart races, pounding loudly against my ribs. In my mind's eye, I see Serena’s face, bruised and swollen, and her eyes wide with fear yet blazing with an unquenchable fire.

Everything has become so confused in my head. Now it’s my own bruised face I’m seeing, as if in a mirror, but the determination in Serena’s eyes remains as she tells me to live.

Reality and nightmare blur, and the room spins as the heroin leaves my body and withdrawal pulls at my senses. My master controlled me with a simple injection, and now my body is fighting back.

Images crash over me in waves— the sharp sting of a slap to the face, the harsh grip on my hair, pulling my head back, and the feel of the cold hard floor against my cheek as I struggle for breath.

I vividly recall the metallic taste of blood in my mouth as I bite down on my lip to stifle my screams.

I remember the feel and taste of their cum, sticky and warm, as it covers and enter my body.

In this space between reality and the horror-filled nightmares crowding my drug-addled mind, I hear Serena’s voice, a ghostly echo in my delirium.

"We have to get out of here, Chloe," she pleads. "We can't let them break us."

The dialogue shifts. My own voice pierces the darkness. It’s a faint whisper in my fractured mind.

"I'm so sorry, Serena. I should have done more,” I apologize.

Guilt is my constant companion, along with the constant fear of not knowing whether she is alive or dead.

I don’t know how long this dreamworld persists. It feels like a lifetime, but eventually, the drugs’ influence wanes, and my surroundings come into sharper focus. I’m no longer in a sterile hospital room. No, this is someone’s bedroom with pictures on the walls. There’s a closet and a dresser with brushes and hair ties. I can see blankets in a heap on the floor that have been kicked from the bed I’m lying in.

I try to concentrate, needing to understand where I am, but the physical pain of withdrawal still claws at me and scatters my thoughts.

Then I remember.

Diego came for me. He saved me.

A shudder racks through me as a sob escapes my lips, and I curl into a tight ball, seeking solace in the cocoon of my emaciated body. But whatever I do, there’s no respite from the memories. I don’t think there ever will be.

I drift off to sleep at some point. This time my slumber is dreamless and more peaceful, but it does little to soothe my aching body. When I wake again, I cast my weary eyes over the room once more and remind myself I’m in someone’s home, not a cell, and my master is gone.

I have vague memories of seeing my master being tortured and killed. If my recollections are correct and not drug induced fiction, then my only regret is that I wasn’t the one who inflicted the final blow of the knife into his chest. I have to believe he’s dead and will never hurt me again.

It’s a new day, and for the first time, in what seems like an eternity, I have some hope.

“How are you feeling?” A masculine voice comes from the other side of the room, and I instantly recognize its owner.

“Diego,” I respond weakly, trying to turn my head to face him, but my neck is stiff, and my body is aching.

“Lie still.” Diego’s at my side now, undoing the cuffs at my wrists. “I’m sorry about these. We needed to make sure you couldn’t hurt yourself.”

“Where am I?” I ask, still unable to recognize my surroundings.

“My house outside Las Vegas. We have a medical team here, and they’ve been looking after you, helping you detox from the heroin you were being injected with.”

“Serena?” I question, hoping for positive news.

“We’re still looking for her. I have a team checking out a new lead as we speak, but I didn’t want to leave you while you’re still recovering from the effects of the drugs.”

“How long have I been here?”

“Two weeks.”

“And how long have I been missing?”

“Six months.”

Diego’s expression is grim. He seems reluctant to answer my questions for fear of upsetting me, but I need him to be honest. I couldn’t cope with anyone lying to me, and he must read it on my face.

“I need to sit up,” I tell him.

With Diego’s help, I rise into a sitting position. I’m unsteady in the bed, and my movements are tentative. It feels like I’m learning to navigate the world anew. The room starts to spin, and I steady myself against the rails of the hospital style bed I’m lying in. The bars on either side of me are smooth beneath my trembling hands, and the sensation is strange because everything in the cell felt so rough to my touch.

“I want to look in a mirror,” I demand. Diego screws his face up, and I can tell he’s about to refuse my request. “Please,” I beg. “I need to see if there’s anything left of the person I was before I was taken.”

He moves away from the bed to the dressing table, and a few moments later, he returns with a small handheld mirror. He holds it up so I can look at my reflection.

I stare at myself and inspect the physical marks of my captivity—the fading bruises, the cuts still healing, and the way my eyes look hollow and haunted. But I know it’s the internal scars I can’t see that will take the longest time to heal. If ever.

"Is this who I am now?" I whisper. The question hangs in the air between us, unanswered.

The Chloe who existed before my captivity is a distant memory—a ghost who had no idea such darkness could exist in her perfect world.

“Chloe.” Diego tries to comfort me. He starts to pull the mirror away, but I quickly reach out, and with surprising strength, I take it from him.

“Can you get me something to wash my face with, please? I need…”

I’m not sure what I need. My entire body feels dirty, and I don’t think any amount of water will ever make it feel clean again. I can’t fully explain why I’m insisting on washing my face, but maybe it’s because it’s something I can do for myself. I need to take back some control.

Diego nods before heading across the room and disappearing through a door, presumably into an en-suite bathroom. He returns a few moments later with a wet cloth that he hands to me. He doesn’t speak, but he watches me intently, his dark chocolate eyes taking everything in.

I begin to wash my face. The clean water causes a small jolt to my system, and each droplet that runs down my skin seems to carry a tiny piece of my anguish away.

I hand the cloth back when I’m done, and with one final glance in the mirror, my resolve hardens. The path to my recovery, both physical and emotional, looms ahead of me. It’s a daunting prospect, filled with obstacles I can’t even begin to imagine. But there’s a new determination in me to reclaim some semblance of my former self. I refuse to let this experience define me.

I feel the slightest shift within me. It’s as if I’ve taken the first step back to the living. It’s a small but crucial victory against the shadows that threaten to overwhelm me. I’m not naive. I know it will take a lot more time to find myself again, if it’s even possible, but at least I’m safe. The drugs have finally left my body, and for the first time in six months, I have washed my own face with clean, warm water.