They tied me up and sent me to that so-called psychiatrist. I thought maybe it was real, but the second I saw the man’s eyes, I knew. He wasn’t a doctor. He was just some sick man Nivianne paid to break me.
That week felt like hell. He drugged me, he shocked me, and he used every twisted trick in his book. He knew how to hurt without leaving marks, how to make pain crawl under my skin until I wished I was dead. Every time I woke, it was to more pain. I begged God to just let me die in my sleep, but my body kept dragging me back.
When Wilbert finally came, I was so weak I couldn’t even stand straight. I looked like a ghost.
He frowned at me like I was some puzzle he couldn’t figure out. “Why do you look so pale?” he asked. His tone wasn’t worry. It was annoyance, like I had embarrassed him.
I stayed quiet. What was the point of talking?
Nivianne got out of the car, smiling like a cat that had just eaten the bird. “What else could it be? She’s pretending. She just wants to make you worry.”