Creed by Trisha Leaver Page A

hell.
    “Please, Dee. He can’t know you’re awake yet or he’ll want to take over.”
    Joseph grabbed the knife off the table and bent down in front of me. He looked at my arm before sliding one of the metal bowls forward. I tensed up, terrified that he was calculating which part of my arm to slice into next.
    “Don’t,” I begged. I would’ve said anything, done anything he asked right then if he’d just let me go.
    “I’m not doing this to hurt you. I’m doing this to keep you safe.”
    Hurt me? He wasn’t going to hurt me? What kind of idiot did he take me for? The crisscross pattern of marks lining my arms were his doing. The metal pans filled with my blood were his doing. And the blade he held to my forearm was certainly all him.
    “Close your eyes, Dee,” he said again, and I did everything in my power to open them wider, to stare at him with what little defiance and courage I could gather. If he was going to do this, then I wasn’t going to make it easy for him. He was going to have to look me in the eyes as he sliced me up.
    I caught the slight tremor in his hand as he pushed the blade in. The pain didn’t bother me. It stung but nothing more. I could even handle the blackish red seeping from my arm. What did me in was the sound of my blood hitting the metal pan.
    My world spun. The only thing anchoring me to the present was the earth-shattering sound of the dripping. I could hear Joseph speaking. It was as if he were calling me from the end of a tunnel, his voice warped and drawn out as he told me to let go.
    I did as he said. I let go of everything and welcomed the darkness hovering around the edges of my mind.

FIFTEEN
    I’d been moved. The soft quilt tucked around me and the smell of hot food told me that much. A quick scan of the room confirmed my suspicions. The cinderblock walls were gone, beige plaster boxing me in. Two plain beds without headboards sat side by side, and I was lying in one. The other was neatly made, with a white-and-gold quilt covering the sheets. There was a nightstand, two wooden chairs, and a pine dresser with some sort of big glass bowl sitting on top of it. Above me was a clock and a window. Full-sized. No bars. Just a plain old wooden window covered with lace curtains.
    Slowly, I sat up, my eyes immediately trailing down my arms. Bandages covered my forearms from wrist to elbow. I pressed down on one gently, wincing as pain shot through me. The throbbing in my head had given way to a dull ache. It hurt, but at least I could think past it. Reaching up to the back of my head, I swept my hair aside and uncovered yet another bandage and an extremely tender section of scalp.
    My mind raced back to the basement, to Joseph’s whispers, to the footsteps and the pinch in my arm that had sent my entire world reeling into darkness. I struggled through the haze, trying to remember how I got here, who’d carried me, and what route they took. But it was all a blur. One horrific, migraine-inducing blur.
    I scooted back, pulling the quilt with me. A quick peek under the blankets let me know I was completely dressed. It didn’t mean anything, not when I’d been unconscious for God knows how long. But for some reason, that extra layer of cotton made me feel safer.
    The door eased open and Joseph walked in, eying the bed before taking a seat across the room.
    “Where am I?” I asked.
    “In our reintegration facilities.”
    I stared at him, trying to wrap my head around that word. Reintegration.
    He laughed, a familiar sound that did little to relax me. “Stop thinking so hard. It’s nothing more than a fancy name for the rooms behind the chapel.”
    I gazed back at the window, honing in on the small metal bracket on the top of the frame. It was a standard latch, one that locked from the inside. I glanced at the door. No visible lock there at all. Nothing. Absolutely nothing preventing me from bolting.
    As easy as it appeared, I doubted it’d be that simple.
    Joseph saw my