The Oath We Give (The Hollow Boys Book 5)

coraline

“You’re safe now.”

Then why do I feel so exposed? Why do I feel like I’m leaving myself the further forward we walk? 

I’m being removed from the protection of familiarity, thrust toward the unknown with little explanation. My feet drag, desperate to turn around, to go back. I don’t want to leave. 

However, I’ve learned it’s always better to remain obedient than deal with the agony of punishment. 

Two people in uniforms flank me, police officers, each with a hand curled around my upper arm. 

“172 to Central. I need an ambulance to 1798 West Crew Lane. I have a female with severe lacerations to face and arms.”

“10-4, 172, rescue en route.” 

Their voices are TV static, random noise that scratches against the air, crackling on my skin. A buzz that fills my ears with little purpose. I barely recognize them as words, only sounds. 

I never thought seeing other people, anyone other than him, would be such a shock. It’s a foreign confusion to my regulated system that someone other than him could come down the steps and into the dimly lit basement. That someone other than him existed. 

How long has it been since I’ve seen another face? How long has it been since I’ve seen my face? 

With painfully firm hands, they guide me onto the last step, then lead me through an open door and into a room pouring sunlight. I flinch, immediately shut my eyes, and tuck my head against my shoulder. 

My body turns away from the harsh sun streaming into this new room. I take several moments to adjust, eyes bleary as I blink through the burning. I try to take in the space, only catching glimpses before my eyes are forced to shut once again. 

The room comes to me in flashes between blinks. 

Polished furniture, smart appliances, spotless interior decorations, and all the wealth seeping between. It’s a mosaic, a tiny piece of a larger picture. The upstairs portion of his home. 

The place I’ve lived beneath. 

All this time, there was a home above me. People living their lives, bustling around, completely unaware of my presence just a few feet below. 

I cast my gaze down as we move forward, staring at the soot and dirt covering my feet. Each step leaves a stain of filth on the gleaming hardwood floors. We pass several people on our walk to the front door, each of them blurring, unrecognizable, as I numbly allow my body to succumb to their direction. My tongue drags across my bottom lip, feeling dead skin and cracks along the seam. 

When we approach the open front door, I can smell crisp air. It ambushes me the moment we step out of the house and onto the steps. It burns my throat as it enters, thirsty lungs gulping it down. My system rattles, the world spinning with the abrupt rush of oxygen. 

How long has it been since I smelled fresh air? 

My stomach lurches as my vision tries to adjust, my senses overwhelmed by the chaos outside, too many things happening at once. The police cars littering the brick driveway, the shouting, the sun. 

The hair on the back of my neck stands up. 

Above the whining sirens and noise is his voice, shouting, bitter, and furious, but it’s still a balm to my raging nerves.

“Step—” My voice is strangled by the dry hands on my throat, unable to deliver his name.

A hand tightens on my thin arm, a gentle squeeze in order to bring me some form of nonverbal comfort. “It’s okay. He’s leaving. We are taking him away. He will never hurt you again.” 

I’m unsure which one says this because all I can focus on is the way my chest seizes with panic. 

He’s leaving? 

Fear—it latches its jaw, hinges on my heart, and gorges on what little remains. Its serrated teeth tear and gnaw at the organ that is barely beating. 

Fear is a starved beast, no matter how often you feed it. 

Across the lawn, Stephen is thrashing against several officers, resisting them as they attempt to shove him toward an open police car. Handcuffs are sealed behind his back, and his dirty-blond hair is disheveled, swaying as he struggles. 

Tears sting my eyes, sliding down my cheeks and tickling underneath my chin. That’s the way his hair looked on the nights he’d stay with me. 

The two of us on that thin yellowing mattress shoved into the corner of the basement. My skin felt every steady breath from his warm mouth as he rested his head on my chest. The palms of my hands remember the softness of his hair, gaps between my fingers longing for the silky strands. 

For hours, we’d lie there, staring at my charcoal drawings he’d let me tape to the wall, talking about his day until he’d finally fall asleep. In those solitary moments where no words were spoken, everything felt okay. 

There was no pain or sadness. Only us. 

I was his. And he was mine. 

“Coraline—” 

My body moves, almost out of instinct. Jerking from the hands holding me, I stumble forward with the force. My frail legs wobble beneath me, struggling to hold my weight as I move. I’m uncoordinated, sluggish as I jog across the grass, finding my footing quicker than expected until I make it to a steady sprint. 

The blades of grass brush the soles of my feet. My matted hair catches the wind, and I feel it swaying against my lower back. 

“Stephen!” I shout. The force of my scream shreds my already tender throat, but I can’t bring myself to care about the pain.

My voice grabs his attention, his head swirling in my direction, eyebrows furrowed together as he searches for me. I catch a glimpse of his blue eyes from this distance, stark and all-seeing. The force of the wind blows my stained white shirt off my shoulder, exposing the old bandage there. 

His stern gaze instantly softens when it finds me, face relaxing and eyes turning down. My stomach drops, and my next movements catch the officers next to him off guard enough to allow it. 

I throw myself at him. 

Looping my arms around his neck, I bury my face in his chest. The sound of his back slamming the car door behind us is an echoing thud. The smell of wood and spice surrounds me. 

My body clings to him as much as my soul does. He is my gravity. My earth, sun, and moon. There has not been another voice in my ears for who knows how long. I have not felt another touch or inhaled air he did not provide.

I barely remember my life without him. My own name is a foreign word. 

Stephen Sinclair is my home. My wrists ache for his chains that keep me safe. His hands are the ones that fed me, his kiss the one that both broke and healed me. No one else has ever been able to love me. 

It’s only him. 

“Don’t leave me,” I cry into his shirt, digging my hands into his body, pulling him closer. “Please, you promised. You promised you’d never leave me. I’ve been so good.” 

The breath of his sigh brushes my cheek. The feeling of his lips pressing to the side of my head makes me push into the gentle touch more. His voice is a hum in my ear, soothing to my fear. 

“Circe, my sweet girl,” he murmurs. “We can only go back if you tell them the truth. You tell them I didn’t keep you down there. You wanted to stay with me. Tell them, and I’ll never leave you.”

Circe. 

Only Circe. 

The police, who were frozen in shock from my outburst, have now regained movement. Snapping to action, their hands are quick to grab at me, ripping us apart with vigor, but I refuse to let go. 

“I’m—” A sob steals my words, the shake unbearable for my brittle bones. “I’m scared, Stephen. Where are they taking me? You can’t leave, please!”

The removal of his body is jarring, warmth immediately replaced by the bitter cold of abandonment. I’m wrapped up and dragged backward, but I continue fighting. Hands clawing and scratching, I scream for him. 

We can’t be apart. I can’t let him leave me. 

Don’t they understand? Can’t they see? 

He loves me. I love him. 

I cry, I cry, I cry. 

I sob until there is no more water for me to shed, until all I can do is dry heave and shake. Tears drown me until my eyes shut, and all I can hear are his parting words as they pulled me away. 

The very last words he ever spoke to me. 

“You’re mine, and I will come back for you, Circe. I will always come back to you. You belong to only me.” 

Someone brushes my shoulder as they pass by me, making me blink. I take a second to remember where I’m at, what I’m doing. The buzz of people mingling fills my ears, and I refocus my attention on the people filling my studio that I’d had converted into a showcase for the occasion. I blink through the fog, wiggling my toes in my heels, trying to feel the ground of my present beneath me. 

I focus on the buzz of people mingling in my ears, the bodies swirling around my studio put on display for their enjoyment. I smell the endeavors being waltzed around on silver plates. 

I’m okay. He’s not here. I’m okay. 

That text message I received the other day has made it more difficult to remain in my present-day life. My nightmares have gotten worse, and the flashbacks that appear out of thin air have returned. 

The little work I’ve accomplished over the last two years has drifted away. A flutter in the wind. One text from someone pulling a dumb fucking prank, and I’m ripping at the seams all over again, busted open and scooping up my insides with bleeding hands. 

I stand here in this room full of people, letting them admire my work, letting them admire me, wondering if deep down, they can all see the shame. If they can see how weak I am, how silly and stupid I feel for falling in love with my captor. 

These people who write articles speculating about what happened and beg for excessive interviews, they judge me. As if they know what it was like, as if they could have lasted for two seconds of the torture I endured. 

None of them know what it took to survive. What my body did to make it out alive. 

“This piece is stunning, Coraline.” 

I flinch as a soft hand touches my elbow, my head turning and shoulders relaxing once I recognize the familiar face. 

Hedi Tenor. 

A heartbroken mother from a neighboring town. Her only daughter, Emma, was one of the many girls rescued from my father’s shipping containers after Stephen was arrested. 

However, Emma’s story was not one of rescue and joy. She could only hold on for three months before the extent of her injuries took her life in a cold, quiet hospital bed. It was in her memory Hedi created Light. 

It’s an organization that is dedicated to supporting survivors of the torturous sex ring run by the Sinclair family for decades. The Halo is responsible for thousands of trafficked, missing, and murdered women. But Light, they help provide resources for families and survivors. 

Housing, free therapy, group counseling, financial advisers. Any struggles they may face while trying to integrate back into society, they help with. 

“Two hundred thousand dollars seems a little steep, doesn’t it? I mean, the work is incredible, but golly, that’s a big price tag.” She crinkles her nose, blissfully unaware of the wealth in the room around us as she lifts a flute of overpriced champagne to her lips. 

At least, I think it’s champagne. I know nothing about this gala except for my work being sold. I let Regina’s planner handle the entire event. It’s not like any of this mattered to me, anyway. 

Once a gritty warehouse dominating the street corner with its industrial facade, I’d worked for months to transform it, evolving it into an art studio that allows creativity to breathe. A haven for artists. 

I’d left the exterior alone, liking the weathered charm of the brick. I glance up at the original exposed steel beams on the high ceilings that blend well into the large wall of windows I’d had put in, wanting as much natural light as possible. 

Concrete floors are polished with a smooth finish, and splatters of paint from a previous class still decorate the ground. The planner had done good, moving the sturdy worktables of supplies, easels, and drawing boards. The walls of the warehouse are adorned with my art, organized for guests to weave through the space. They even redesigned the small corner that was once a cozy lounge filled with vintage couches and armchairs into an elegant space. 

It’s sophisticated, upscale, pompous. 

Everything I hate.

“Some rich asshole already paid double.” My lips tilt at the corners. “For all of them.” 

Ponderosa Springs’ high society are all in attendance, along with my stepmother and father. How could they miss an event like this? Coraline Whittaker, the survivor, selling her paintings in a one-time-only private showing? 

Too good for the rumor mill and deep pockets to pass up. 

Hedi’s eyes widen. “There are twelve works of art here. There is no way I can let you donate this much money. You have to keep some of it for yourself.” 

I pin her with a hard stare. “You can, and you will.” I cast my gaze around the room briefly at all the people with their designer clothes and noses in the air. “Don’t feel guilty about taking money from these people. I assure you, it’s much better off in your pocket than theirs.” 

They use their money for drugs and blackmail, spending countless dollars on new yachts and escorts. At least this way, I have some control over where that money goes. 

This is the only way I’m comfortable putting a price tag on my art anyway. Knowing it’s helping Hedi and her team. Knowing I’m doing something to help. 

“You do all of this, the teaching, subjecting yourself to these people that you clearly dislike, but you won’t come to a single meeting?” She lifts a blonde eyebrow, watching me carefully. 

“It’s a complex.” I shrug. “There are other people who need those meetings far more than I do. I’d only be wasting resources.” 

When we first met, she tried for months to get me to go to the group session. I’d rather pluck my eyeballs out with tweezers, and I’d told her that. I’m not a fan of pouring my trauma out in front of people, and plus, I meant what I said. 

There are other women who need it far more than I do. 

However, when she asked if I’d be interested in offering some free classes to survivors, my answer had been an immediate yes. I refuse a lot of things, but I needed that, something to grip on to keep me from going under. 

I’d never taught art life, and honestly, I don’t consider myself a teacher. I really just explain the different mediums and how best to apply them to canvas. The rest is them. Whatever they want to create in the two hours we spend together is entirely up to them. 

They can talk or be silent. Paint or draw. Sculpt or mold. There is no expectation to be anything but broken when they walk inside of here.

In art, you’re given permission to be the ugliest version of yourself just so you can make something beautiful from it.

She sighs, tilting her head to the right a little as she shakes it. “I don’t understand why you do that.” 

I arch an eyebrow. “Do what?” 

“That.” She motions to my body. “Just because you have money doesn’t mean your experience, what you went through, isn’t valid, baby. Money can never take that pain away. You’re allowed to hurt. You’re allowed to talk about it just as much as the next person.” 

There is a pit in my stomach, heavy rocks weighing me down, making me feel sick. I know she means well, and I hear what she’s saying, but she’ll never understand. 

The guilt, the shame. 

How every day I hate myself more and more when I think about how I’d crave his touch at night when it was cold, that food didn’t even matter when he’d come down those steps. I just wanted to see him. To be around him. 

It makes me sick knowing how much I loved him. What the fuck was wrong with me? Who does that? 

Instead of replying, I nod, turning my attention back to my painting and hoping my silence is enough for her, and because it’s Hedi, because she is kind, it is. 

“When did you paint this?” she asks, seamlessly changing the subject. 

“A little over a year ago.” 

I remember the four whole days I spent on it. The way I stumbled out of bed at midnight and to this very studio, just to stare at an empty canvas until the birds chirped outside. 

It took me an entire day to pick up a brush. To will myself to create what I felt inside of my head. I could see it so clearly, but it was as if my hands had forgotten how to paint. Which is painful enough on its own. 

The one thing you’re good at, the one thing you feel like you were meant to do, and suddenly you can’t? It’s heartbreaking. 

But when the brush touched the canvas, muscle memory kicked in. Every stroke and splatter that laid the oil painting in front of me came out like blood from a split vein. 

“What’s its name? Paintings have names, right?” 

I stare at the canvas. 

The painting is a man’s face divided into two parts. The top half seamlessly blends into a darkening background, a tiny cosmos far off in the distance adding a surreal element. The lower half of his face is visible. It took me hours to get it right. A mouth drawn in a harsh line, a blueish-gray tint to his skin, unmoving as if he’s only a statue.

It’s impossible for anyone to know who inspired it. That most of these paintings that some stranger purchased are from a raw, deep, painful place inside of my soul.

However, the universe is keen.

As of late, it seems to constantly remind me that there is one person who knows about that place in me. Heard it. Witnessed it. Calmed it.

Goosebumps scatter across my arms as a familiar voice answers Hedi’s question.

“Voice in the Canvas.”