Evelyn's POV
I lay on the bed, staring at nothing.
The mattress creaked under the harsh rhythm above me, its springs groaning in time with the pounding of my own heart. My eyes were fixed on the peeling paint of the ceiling, but I didn't really see it. I didn't see anything anymore. I had learned long ago that if I stared into empty space long enough, I could almost leave this room. Almost.
The air was heavy with the stench of alcohol and sweat. I could hear his breathing, sharp, guttural, ugly, filling the silence like the rasp of a predator over its prey as he rammed into me, again and again and again and again and again.
I didn't move. I didn't speak. I just let my mind drift to places, any place, outside this room
When the noise stopped, his shadow peeled away from mine. I heard him grunt in satisfaction, that same revolting sound I'd learned to dread. The bed stopped moving, but my body still felt the phantom weight.
He fastened his trousers slowly, like he wanted me to watch, like he wanted me to know there was no rush, he had all the time in the world, and I had none.
"Oh, my dear Evelyn…" His voice was syrupy and rotten at the same time. That smile, that awful, slow curl of his lips, made my skin prickle. "Your body…. it's one of a kind."
The words slithered over my skin, worse than his hands.
"Good job today," he added, as if I'd done something to be proud of. "I'll be back tomorrow."
The lock clicked behind him, the sound sharp and final.
I sat up slowly, every motion mechanical, like the joints of a puppet being pulled by invisible strings. My body wasn't mine anymore, it hadn't been for years. My legs felt hollow as I walked to the small bathroom.
The tiles were cold under my feet. I turned the tap and let the water gush out, icy and unwelcoming. I stepped under it anyway.
The water soaked my hair, streamed down my face, my shoulders, my arms.
I grabbed the bar of soap and began to scrub. Hard.
Harder.
Hard enough that the skin on my arms flushed pink, then red. Hard enough that my palms burned.
It was never enough.
It never washed away the filth he left behind.
I scrubbed again, until I saw the faint beads of blood rise to the surface. The sting was sharp, but it was real. The pain made me feel alive, if only for a moment.
When I was done, I stood dripping in front of the cracked mirror above the sink. My reflection looked pale and thin, the eyes staring back at me hollowed out and lifeless. The girl in the glass was a ghost. A shell. A stranger.
I traced my fingers down my arms, over the faint scars and raw patches of skin.
I didn't cry. I couldn't.
My tears had dried up years ago, ten years of this life had burned them out of me completely.
There was nothing left but silence and the faint sound of water dripping into the drain.
My name is Evelyn Hart.
To everyone else, I'm the human girl with schizoaffective disorder.
That's the official label, the neat, medical term printed on paper with a doctor's signature. A lie I never earned, but one my uncle wears like armor whenever he needs to silence me.
It's just a facade, his masterpiece of manipulation.
A perfect little story that paints me as unstable, delusional, and prone to imagining things that never happened.
The truth?
I live the life of a caged dog.
Fed just enough to keep me alive. Chained by lies. Beaten into silence.
Unlike this gloomy, hollow version of me right now, I used to be happy, so happy it almost hurts to remember. When my parents were alive, we didn't have much, but they made me feel like a princess. My father's laugh could fill a room. My mother's hands were always warm, always gentle. We lived in a small house, but inside, it felt like a kingdom.
That kingdom crumbled when I was eleven.
The day they died was the day the world stopped making sense.
My parents died, in a car accident.
My father's younger brother stepped into the ruins of my life, claiming what was left, the few properties my father owned… and me. He became my legal guardian overnight.
The first few months weren't terrible.
He didn't help me through my grief, not once, but at least he left me alone. I thought that was mercy. I didn't yet understand that neglect was just the first stage of what he had in store for me.
He was a chronic gambler and a drunk, a man who spent more time in smoke filled betting rooms than at home. But one night, he came home reeking of whiskey, his eyes glassy and mean.
That night… he came to my room.
And he.… did things to me.
I screamed until my throat burned. I fought with every bit of strength in my small body. But he was too strong, far too strong. My resistance only seemed to amuse him.
When it was over, I ran. I didn't care that it was the middle of the night, that the streets were empty and dangerous. I found my way to the nearest police station, barefoot and shaking, my words spilling out like broken glass. I told them everything.
And then my uncle walked in.
Calm. Collected. Smiling faintly, like the hero arriving just in time to rescue his poor, damaged niece. He carried papers, a certificate stamped and signed by a doctor.
It said I was mentally ill.
That I suffered from delusions and hallucinations. That my "condition" had been worsening since my parents died.
The police didn't even look at me after that.
I tried to speak, tried to scream the truth, but my uncle put on his performance. He spoke in a soft, pained voice, telling them how hard it was for him to take care of me. How I "imagined" people hurting me. How it all started with small hallucinations after my parents' death, but had "grown worse" with time.
He even cried.
Big, wet, crocodile tears.
They believed every word.
Because who wouldn't believe the concerned guardian of a broken, mentally ill girl?
After that, it didn't matter who I told.
No one listened. Not the neighbors. Not the teachers. Not anyone.
They all saw me through the lens my uncle had crafted, the unstable orphan, prone to making up stories.
And in their eyes, I wasn't Evelyn Hart anymore.
I was just the crazy girl.
I've tried to run away more times than I can count.
Every time I thought I had found a way, slipping out when he was gone, climbing through the window at night, hiding in the back of delivery trucks, somehow, I was always caught.
Sometimes it was him.
Sometimes it was nosy neighbors who thought they were "helping."
Other times, it was the police, who recognized me and walked me right back to the man I was trying to escape from.
After enough failed attempts, he stopped pretending I had any freedom.
He started locking me in the room.
Days bled into weeks, and I barely stepped outside except when he decided I should. I became a prisoner at home
I tried to fight back in other ways.
I tried to kill him.
But he was always too strong.
He always seemed to know when I was about to try something. Like he could smell it on me. He intercepted every attempt before I could act.
The one time I actually managed to hurt him, a single, shallow slice across his forearm with a kitchen knife he'd been foolish enough to leave with my food, I thought I had won a small victory.
I was wrong.
He beat me until I could barely breathe. The blows came one after another, each one sharp enough to make the room spin. And when I was lying on the floor, dizzy and in pain, he stepped out.
When he came back, he wasn't alone.
A group of his drunk, sick minded friends followed him in. The way they looked at me made my stomach twist. And then they all came on to me.
My uncle leaned against the wall, smiling as I fought and thrashed against them, his eyes gleaming with enjoyment at the sight of my terror, as the took turns to rammed their body into mine.
That night… was horror. Pure and endless.
After that, I stopped thinking about freedom for a while. I thought instead about ending it. Ending me. I imagined it the relief of being with my parents again, of leaving this body behind.
But then I thought of what would happen next.
If I died, he would be the grieving hero.
The man who "took care" of his mentally ill orphaned niece until she "tragically" took her own life. The community would applaud him. They'd put him on a pedestal, feed him their pity and their praise.
The thought of that burned through me like fire.
So no. I won't give him that.
I will stay.
I will endure.
I will wait for my chance.
One day, I will expose him. I will tear the mask off his face in front of everyone who ever believed his lies.
And then, when his world is crumbling and there's no one left to save him, I will kill him.
...
The next day, in the evening, the door creaked open.
I expected the usual stench of whiskey. The sluggish, stumbling steps that meant the night would end in more bruises.
But this time…. something was different.
He wasn't drunk.
Not even a hint of liquor on his breath.
Instead, his face was bruised, one cheek purple and swollen, his bottom lip split open. He moved stiffly, wincing every now and then like every step hurt.
For a moment, I wondered what had happened to him.
And then I decided I didn't care.
If anything, I was glad. I wished whoever had hurt him had gone further. Much further.
He was holding a plastic cup in one hand. Some kind of drink. He flashed that same stinking smile he always wore when he thought he had the upper hand.
"Hungry, Evelyn?" he asked, his voice far too light. "I didn't feed you all day… wasn't around."
He sat on the bed beside me, far too close, the mattress dipping under his weight.
I kept my eyes on the far wall, my body rigid.
He held the cup out toward me. "Here. Drink."
I didn't move. My gut twisted. There was something in his tone.... that I absolutely hated
When I didn't take it, his smile faltered. His eyes sharpened. "Drink it, Evelyn."
I stayed still.
That was all it took for the shift to happen, from mock gentleness to sudden violence. His hand clamped down on my jaw, his fingers digging into my cheeks as he forced the cup against my mouth. The bitter liquid splashed over my lips. I tried to twist away, but he was stronger, always stronger. He forced it down my throat in rough, choking gulps until the cup was empty.
He let go, and I coughed hard, wiping my mouth with the back of my hand. My heart was pounding, but before I could speak, he leaned back and smiled again.
"My dear Evelyn," he said in that fake, almost tender voice that made my skin crawl, "I'm sorry… but you'll have to take the brunt for me this time."
I stared at him, my stomach sinking.
"I got into a little trouble," he went on, like he was talking about the weather. "Gambling debt. At a casino owned by the ShadowFang pack."
My chest tightened. The werewolves.
"Now, the only way out," he said, almost cheerfully, "is for me to sell you to them. That way, my debt's paid, and I live. Otherwise.…" He shrugged. "They'll kill me."
"You…" My voice trembled as the words scraped their way out. "You're selling me… to the werewolves?"
His smile widened, eyes glinting. "I would sell you even to the feared and legendary Demon Wolf himself if it meant ensuring my safety, Evelyn."
The room tilted slightly.
My vision blurred. The edges of everything grew darker, heavier. The sound of his voice seemed far away now, like it was coming from underwater.
And then.... nothing.
Just darkness.