Chapter 132: 33| Breathless-1

┏━━━✦❘༻༺❘✦━━━┓ Breathless ┗━━━✦❘༻༺❘✦━━━┛ TW: Abuse/violence/torture themes : Breathless (Anastasia's POV) A cold dampness lingered in the air, the chill in the room sending shivers down my spine before I was even completely conscious. Tchaikovsky's Swan Lake played in the distance as dull noise, the music slowly rising in volume as the haunting melody echoed ominously in the empty space that seemed to surround me. The piece crumbled to its end before Danse Macabre by Camille Saint-Saëns took its place. This piece was just as familiar to me as the last one from all the ballet classes I'd attended and observed over the years. As the song started to slow down to its gentle ending, my mind and body started to awaken. Squinting at first, my eyes opened, and the first thing I saw was the dark ceiling towering over me in the dimly lit room. The first thing I felt was the harsh and rigid mattress below me, completely different from the one I'd wake up on in my own bedroom each morning. The shackles around my ankles hit me next, the metal cold and icy as it bit my skin. A dull throb began aching against my skull as I grew fully conscious, slowly sitting up. Pain tore through my head and spine, and fear began pooling in the pits of my stomach. As I sat up and scanned the place, I first noticed the twin-sized bed I was on. A thin white sheet with pink flowers painted across it covered the mattress with a matching and clean duvet covering me up to my waist. At the opposite end of the room was an identical bed with Francesca sitting awake, curled up into a corner, clutching her knees against her chest. Her eyes met mine sharply just as I opened my mouth to call out to her, and her finger shot up to her mouth, silencing me sternly. My eyes traveled from one corner of the room to another before stopping in the middle. The music played incessantly, and it only made my head pound more. A canvas on a wooden stand blocked my view, and the stranger behind it remained hidden. I only caught glimpses of him as he swayed and danced with the paintbrush nestled between his fingers. My breaths grew shallow as the realization of what had happened crashed over me, and fragments from last night played in my mind. Francesca and I had run off into the yard during the party we were attending with our parents. It wasn't unusual for us to run off with some of the other kids and play around in ballrooms and gardens. That night, it was just the two of us. Just us until that man showed up. Everything happened so quickly that we hardly had time to call for help, and our screams, although we yelled at the top of our lungs, were too soft to reach the crowd inside. Another classical melody echoing in the room ended, and with it, his paintbrush finally came down. "Ah," he sighed loudly, reaching for the rag dangling on the back of his discarded chair. I caught a glimpse of him wiping his hands off before he side-stepped the canvas and turned to face Francesca. "What do you think, Francesca? Do you like my painting?" he asked her calmly. She nodded wordlessly. I could see her body trembling from across the room. Then he turned to look over his shoulder, and his eyes met mine. The smile that danced on his lips unsettled me. "Looks like my Little Dove is finally awake." Tossing the rag to the ground, he began making his way over, each step he took making him seem more like a predator. Instinctively, I scooted as far back on the bed as possible, eventually hitting the wooden headboard. Sighing again, he dropped to sit by my legs and reached for me after letting out a small chuckle. The smallest whimper escaped me as I curled up into myself. Before he could lay a hand on me, I heard Francesca shout, "Don't touch her!" My eyes frantically shifted between the two of them. Amusement etched on his face, he turned to glance at her. "Did you say something, honey?" he asked her, his voice patronizing. "I said, don't touch my sister!" Francesca yelled louder, shifting onto her knees. Rolling his eyes at her response, he turned his attention back to me and reached out to tuck my hair over my ears. I flinched and bit down on my lip as tears streamed down my face. My heart was pounding in my chest; it was getting harder to breathe with the fumes of paint coating the walls of that room, and the only thought in the mind of six-year-old me was how desperately I wanted to go home and how terrified I was. "I always knew I'd like you better, Anastasia," he said to me, "you're quiet. Just how I like them. Your sister, on the other hand…" He clicked his tongue. "Tsk. She talks too much. That mouth will get her in trouble one day, you know. Tell her to shut up." I stared at him, my vision blurred from the tears pooling in my eyes. "Tell her!" he shouted at the top of his lungs, completely rattling me from the inside out. I jumped and screamed in pure fear, clutching the covers tighter, the only barrier between us. "Franny, don't!" I cried, my head dropping forward. "Ana, I'm right here, okay!" Francesca called out. "I won't let him hurt you, I promise!" Irritation swelled in his eyes, and his jaw ticked as he began to rise. I'd grabbed onto his sleeve in one desperate, futile attempt to keep him away from Francesca. "Please," I began sobbing, "I'm sorry." "Oh, Little Dove," he sighed, sitting back down and placing a hand on the back of my head, slowly raking his fingers through my hair. "Why should you apologize? Your sister's been a bad girl. It'll get worse if I don't punish her." "Please," I begged again, "please. I want Mom," I cried. "I just want Dad." He shook his head. "That can't happen, Little Dove." He tipped my chin up slowly, and the monster I saw in those eyes was one I'd never forget. "I'm going to keep you here as mine forever." Standing up, he made his way over to Francesca with rage and fury bubbling from within him. Each step he took made my heart drop even more, and when he finally reached her, my heart stopped completely.