Chapter Four - Lilies

I couldn't move. It was nighttime. Moonlight came in from a nearby window, illuminating the room in a silvery haze. I was laying on my back, something soft and velvety underneath my uncovered arms which were actually above my head. I tugged them down.

Something from the opposite direction kept my wrists in place. Restricting them from moving. I turned my head.

Frayed ropes were tied around my wrists. The other end of the rope was tied around a wooden post. A bed post. I was on a bed.

Cold air swept across the room. Goosebumps bubbled along my flesh. When had the window been opened? I lifted my head to look around.

Lincoln was standing at the foot of the bed. Dressed in all black, mask on his head. The mask did not hide that hungry look in his eyes.

I screamed.

Lincoln crawled onto the bed. I attempted to kick my legs out but they were tied to the two posts at the bottom edge of the bed. I was spread-eagle in nothing but a - white bra and white underwear? Those were not mine. I did not own white lingerie. I could not think much about it anyway; Lincoln pressed a hand firmly on my stomach.

He positioned himself on top of me, straddling my right leg. I squirmed, panicking, breathing fast. Lincoln shoved his knee in between my legs at the juncture of my thighs. Both of his hands gripped my waist, his long fingers digging into my ribs.

"No!" I shouted, closing my eyes and throwing my head back into the pillows repeatedly.

He stopped. I opened my eyes.

Lincoln's hands left my midsection. They went into the air, moving fast, until they latched around my narrow neck. His thumbs pressed into my windpipe, cutting off my flow of oxygen. My eyes bugged. Coughs and scratchy gasps flew from my mouth.

Breathe, I told myself, breathe!

The room darkened. My vision blurred. My throat started to throb painfully, the haunting ache of Lincoln's strength.

And then all at once the room blacked out to nothing. Hardly a second passed before my eyes snapped open.

Sweat trickled down my temples in rivulets. My breaths were heavy, quick - at least I could breathe. I looked around. I was in the little room I had woke up in the day before. Lincoln was not standing at the bottom of the bed. My arms were not tied down.

A sob wrestled out of my throat. I was safe.

Nightmares weren't my thing. I knew what was real and what wasn't. Not many things scared me. Never had I dreamed about boys. So when I had a nightmare about Lincoln it was like hitting the lottery. A really bad, really scary lottery.

I pushed myself up on the bed, wiping the perspiration from my body with the soft sheet. Morning sunlight danced through the boarded windows.

In a haste I scrambled off the bed. My foot got twisted in a blanket snare, nearly tripping my movements along the way. At the last second my hand caught the window ledge, saving my balance.

I marched to the door. I lifted my arm up, ready to pound away, when the horrid stench of body odor hit my olfactory. It felt like weeks since I had last showered. Did my host know about the basic rules of personal hygiene? Would I ever be able to take a hot shower again? Without the eyes of said host watching me the entire time?

"Hey!" I smacked the door. "Open up!"

No answer. I didn't expect one, anyway.

"You can't keep me in here forever!"

"Open this God-"

The door swung open. I nearly fell forward from the momentum of my pounding.

Lincoln stood there, tall as a tree, dressed in a navy t-shirt and faded jeans. The attire was so simple save for that damn mask that clung to his face.

I gulped and took a step back.

I said, much more quietly that time, "You can't keep me here forever." Thoughts of yesterday, of that box, kept my voice level down.

His hand rested on the doorknob. I could see his forearm grow taut as if what I had said angered him and he was trying to contain himself. I wasn't going to take another step back - that would only show my fear of him. I was terrified of Lincoln but he didn't need to know.

Lincoln released the door handle and stepped forward. I held my breath. He reached out and grabbed my hand. The action was quick; I didn't have time to slip away. But his hold was gentle, not rough. There was no pinching. His large hand enveloped my small one in a soft hold.

I became curious. Lincoln - the short, short time I had come to know him - usually did away right to violence. Not that time. His eyes, though gray and blank, did not portray any hatred or fury. He turned around and pulled me out of the room.

I followed him reluctantly. To me he was a stranger. A kidnapper. But when he guided me to the kitchen, stopping just before the table, I had a moment to think: What was he trying to prove with that delicate behavior? Was he trying a new angle, or just being manipulative?

He pointedly looked down at the table. I followed his gaze.

In a glass vase that had not been there yesterday morning sat a bouquet of tiger lilies. Their vibrant color brought accent to the white place mats and shiny silverware. I was unsure if it was a sick joke or a heartfelt gesture - lilies for Lily.

"They're nice," I blurted without thinking. Because in all retrospect they were beautiful. And meant for me. What would he have done had my name been Venus or Ivy?

Lincoln looked down at me and I swear his eyes sparkled despite the dim lighting in the kitchen. His fingers wrapped around my wrist. Soft yet forceful.

He led me down the hall that was on the other side of the kitchen, the hall where my box had been.

It wasn't long until we stopped in front of a door on the right side of the corridor. Much like the other doors around the house, it was closed. The only difference was that door had a small glass window near the top. Lincoln would easily be able to see through the glass. My head did not reach the bottom of the pane.

I watched him open the door.

Warm, humid air touched my face. Lincoln's hand ghosted on my lower back to urge me forward. I jumped into the room of my own will. I still didn't like the idea of him touching me; the nightmare was still fresh in my mind.

We had been transported to the Amazon. The room was a tiny rain-forest. Sunlight poured through a glass ceiling, hot air coating the glass in a thin fog. Deep green plants covered the entire room; on the floor, on tables, hanging from the walls. Lincoln had his very own greenhouse. I looked down. The ground was made of solid concrete. Dark soil amassed the surface of the floor, nearly camouflaging what was below.

A familiar flower on my right rested against the wall. Not only one, but tens of potted lilies lined a long table, all oranges and whites and yellows. There were so many, all newly bought. I felt my eyes widen in astonishment. I didn't have to ask who they were meant for - I didn't want to ask who they were meant for.

A deep, flaming-red rage broiled inside of me at the very sight of the colorful plants. Why did he have to take something natural and ruin it? In Lincoln's eyes it was a sweet surprise. In my eyes, flowers would never be the same.

My stomach felt queasy. Lincoln sickened me to the very core. What kind of psychotic obsession did he have with me that he had to desecrate my thoughts of flowers? Why did he feel the need to express it in such a twisted, beautiful way? Never would I look at lilies the same again.

I rested a hand on a potted lily nearby. The orange pot was solid, stable. My fingers shook erratically, making the pot wobble. I bit my tongue. Words could not express how messed up Lincoln actually appeared to be.

I shoved the pot off of the table. Hard shattering filled the silence of the greenhouse. It was heavenly. The lily that once resided in the orange tub basically wilted on the spot. The stem drooped until the flower touched the floor, bulb down.

My muscles burned with the need to destroy every single plant. I shoved another pot to the ground, and another, teeth clenched and face pinched. One after the other I threw them off the table, a blind animosity covering my level-headed thoughts, a blanket of bitter yang clouding over the white of yin.

I felt his hands before I heard him move. They closed around my arms, halting my movements. I lurched my body forward, sputtering curses, attempting to get away. Away from that room, away from that house. Far from Lincoln.

"I hate you!" I screamed, throwing my head back. "I hate you, you fucking freak!"

Lincoln shoved me forward. I collapsed onto the ground. Stinging pain bloomed on the tops of my knees. Soil gathered underneath my fingernails.

A hand gripped my shoulder, pulling my body sideways and over. I dropped back on my elbows.

Lincoln loomed above me, the glimmer that once shone in his eyes gone. Hostility replaced the warmth that had only momentarily rested in his gray irises.

In a swift motion he dropped onto one knee and winded his right arm back. His fist slammed into my face so hard, so quick that I nearly missed the action. My head snapped back into the dirt-covered floor. The concrete beneath the thin layer of soil cracked against my skull, making my vision waver.

I blinked, dazed on the floor. A heavy throb began to beat in my eye. His fist came flying again, another sharp hit to my mouth, then my brow, each punch sending my head back into the floor. I swear I saw stars.

I heard rather than saw Lincoln push himself off the ground. When I opened my eyes I found him standing over me, shoulders heaving. Something in my chest dropped, and in the next second Lincoln kicked me in the stomach. Quick and sharp. I gasped, unable to scream from the pain. My lungs couldn't function. Though the ache nearly consumed me I was able to keep count; once, twice, three times, four - he stopped at four.

An eye for an eye, or more accurately, a kick for a plant.

I clutched my abdomen, curling into a ball. Lincoln reveled in the aspect of revenge. And punishment. That was clear.

My eye felt like it was already starting to swell. I turned my face into the dirt. He had won. Shame slathered over the hurt in my guts like scraping cold jelly over warm bread.

Lincoln did not deserve to win. His victory was one less for me to claim. I could not overpower him with strength. I had to start using my head if I wanted to get out of there.

A door slammed. He left. I rolled over on my back and forced myself to get up, ignoring the protests of pain my that my body cried. The ledge of a table appeared in the corner of my fuzzy vision and I grabbed it with both hands, hauling myself from the dirt. I doubled over immediately, gasping, feeling heavy weights pressing on my stomach, sharp stings accompanying the pressure.

A squeak of hinges sounded.

"Lily?"

I nearly fell down.

Tawnee rushed to my aid, catching my weight at the last second. Her hands slipped underneath my shoulders. "Let me help."

When I didn't refuse - as I was in no state to - she threw one of my arms across her back and propped me up with her body. We had become sisters in arms, united by a common enemy: Lincoln Maddox. At least I had the enemy. Tawnee did not seem to want to hurt Lincoln in any way.

I thought about it all the time.

Tawnee did not wish to team up and break free of Lincoln's clutches; that seemed to be the only other thing I could think about.

"Why are you helping me?" I croaked.

We left the greenhouse, the cool air sweeping over my sticky skin.

"You needed it."

She didn't say anything more. Tawnee carried me to the little bedroom. The cage. She laid me down on the mattress as gently as possible.

I turned my head to the wall. "Thanks."

She didn't reply. I looked at her then.

Tawnee's eyes were soft, full of pity, forcing me to look away.

"Try not to do anything stupid, okay? I don't think your body could handle much more."

I grunted because if I said anything it would be a bitter remark about how I would be able to move if I wasn't in Lincoln's proximity.

I didn't understand Tawnee. She tried to help but she wanted to protect her brother at the same time. Trying to do both seemed impossible. I couldn't blame her for Lincoln kidnapping me. She wasn't comfortable with the situation yet she couldn't dare to go against him.

Tawnee left the room, closing the door softly. I stared at the knob, thinking, overthinking. There was something between the two that I didn't know. Something that kept them together, siblings, but not brother and sister. I fully believed that with a little push I could turn Tawnee against him. With her help I could escape and maybe help her escape too.

***

Throughout the remainder of the day Tawnee stopped by to visit. Late breakfast, late lunch, and late dinner came with her short check-ups. Ribbon stopped in once but did not stay long. Only to growl and slobber on the sheets.

I tried to get Tawnee to talk more of Lincoln. She kindly refused, saying, "Another day. When you're feeling better."

The aches in my midsection were strong but not horrible enough that I couldn't hold a conversation. I did not want to wait another day. She didn't understand.

The moon was as high as it could go in the sky and I could not fall asleep. No doubt the pain worsened from laying down all day. When I lifted my shirt I could see deep purple bruising, shadowing my skin even in the white light of the moon. I couldn't lay there any longer. I pushed myself from the bed, intent of searching for Tylenol or NyQuil or both. One for the pain, the other to knock me out cold. I was glad Tawnee left the door unlocked.

I looked towards the foyer, thinking first of escape. There was no use; Ribbon was laying in front of the door. He must have heard me. His head raised from the floor, eyes ethereal in the light that slipped through the small window on the door. I hurried to the kitchen.

The room was completely dark except for a small sliver of space on the far side of the room, behind the dining table. An ornate wooden desk was positioned underneath a small rectangular window, much like the frame molded on the door of the greenhouse. But it was too small to crawl through, and too high to try.

I saw the bathroom right away. It was just outside the kitchen in the opposite hallway, the hallway with the greenhouse and the box room. What other rooms adorned that corridor of crazy?

Groping the wall for a light, my fingers crossed soft cloth and cold tiles before landing on a switch. Warm orange light illuminated the small expanse. White tiles created a half-bath size room. It was no larger than a ten by twelve cubicle. The room held a slim shower, toilet, and a sink with a mirror cabinet above the faucet. I made for the sink first, sliding the mirror aside before looking at the reflection. There was no reason to be reminded of the beating I had received.

The contents were typical. Motrin, band-aids, gauze pads, nail clippers, scissors, a packaged toothbrush. But no Tylenol. No NyQuil, either. I shoved everything in the cabinet around, the scissors falling into the bowl-shaped sink with a shrill clatter. The gauze pads then tipped, sending a shower of packaged wrap onto the floor. I cursed. I stood on my tip-toes to view the top shelf.

There, pushed in the far back, was a small container of sleeping pills.

I could use those.

Suicide wasn't my first idea. I thought harder. What if I couldn't get away from there? Death might be the only way out, and I couldn't wait for Lincoln to kill me. I might have to do that myself.

"I can still get out of here," I said to myself, turning the bottle round in my hand.

It was reassuring to say and hear the words aloud. They became more meaningful, stronger, just coming from my mouth. I tucked the sleeping bills in between the cleavage in my sports bra.

I was about to rifle through the cabinet some more when I felt the hairs on the back of my neck stand on-end. Someone else was in the room. I turned around.

Lincoln stood in the threshold of the tiny bathroom, mask on, shirt off, sweatpants hanging from his waist. I froze, hand still in the cabinet. Instinct told me to run. To hide. Get away from Lincoln Maddox at all costs. I didn't move.

I had to assume I had woken him from sleep. At least, it looked that way. I didn't know where his bedroom was - didn't want to know - but it could've been on the other side of that wall for all I knew.

He stared at me. Hours ago he had destroyed my body with his brutality. He did not apologize. Lincoln stared. I looked down submissively, unfortunately. I was drawn into his torso.

The plane of his chest could have fit a four-lane highway it was so wide. Lincoln was strong, that was clear, his defined pectorals and broad shoulders evidence of that. My tired eyes wandered to his arms, his right bicep, where I caught sight of an ink job. The tattoo was simple, a strand of barb wire that wrapped around the muscle. A common jail tattoo. Had Lincoln been to prison before?

He stepped forward. The room was small enough as it was; Lincoln made it suffocating. My face pulsed with pain, reminding me that he had created the ache. I turned away catching the mirror, wishing immediately I hadn't looked.

A girl who looked as though she fought in a boxing match and lost stared back from the glass.

My left eye had turned a purple so deep it could have been a plum. A short cut marred my left brow, a similar one splitting my bottom lip in two halves. Blood had run down the left side of my face which left a russet chalky trail, dried and dull. How could that happen?

My hands curled inward, fingernails digging into my palms. Lincoln Maddox. I hated him; I hated him; I hated him.

I was distracted with my appearance and because of that I didn't notice Lincoln came closer. A large hand appeared on my shoulder in the reflection. I jerked away, looking back at him.

Lincoln did not seem bothered at all by what my face had become. A purple pulpy mess glared up at him but he did not flinch. The hand on my shoulder tightened. The next thing I knew he shoved me down on the top of the toilet lid.

"Oomph." The seat rattled from my weight. I made to jump right back up but Lincoln's other hand shot out. He pointed his forefinger at me, a warning. Thinking of my already swollen features, I remained still. I still sneered at him.

When he was sure that I wasn't going to run he began to pick through the medicine cabinet. His search was much quieter than mine. Much more careful, too. I wanted to say something sarcastic about already checking through the contents but I held my tongue. Who is to say he wouldn't chop it off at that point?

Lincoln grabbed a cloth and put some warm water over it before squatting down in front of me, tubes and gauze and a damp cloth in his hand. That was the only time we shared the same height, the only time we would see eye-to-eye. He balanced the gauze pads on his muscled thigh then reached up to my face with the washcloth. I reared back instinctively, panicking.

His hand paused halfway to my cheek, going slack. Lincoln blinked. I couldn't breathe. I didn't want him to touch me even if he was trying to help. His touch came with pain, and I didn't know how much more I'd be able to take.

The blankness in his eyes terrified me. "I can do it," I said quickly. "I can clean my face. Let me do it."

I opened my hand for the cloth, fingers quaking with fear. Lincoln grabbed my wrist sharply. I winced, shying from his pinch.

He jerked our arms down until mine was in my lap. I didn't struggle. He let go, his hand coming up behind my head. He thrust his fingers in my scalp, holding my head in place. I bit the inside of my cheek to keep from yelling. The towel came up again, that time pressing against my skin, the material warm on my cool flesh. Lincoln wiped the blood from my face. I stared at him as hard as I could, trying to express my hatred for him with an icy gaze. He didn't seem fazed at all.

After a few minutes he pulled his hand back, fingers leaving my hair as well. He picked up a tube and twisted off the cap, squeezing the bottle in the same motion. In the span of a few hours he had gone from Evil Lincoln to Not-So-Evil Lincoln. What had changed?

All of his movements were very quick, very precise. Like he had done that before. Tawnee instantly came to my mind; had he beat her around the same way then patched her up like he was doing for me? He peppered Neosporin around my features, intent on placing it directly on the cuts.

Carefully, he set the tube on the edge of the sink, reaching for the scissors that rested in the basin. He cut up the gauze pad into a small square. With stable fingers he placed it over my brow, the think material sticking to the medicine easily.

I watched a transformation in his eyes. They were blank to begin with but then they were something different. Soft, almost sorrowful. Maybe I was giving him too much credit, and he was actually pitying me, though I didn't quite understand why.

Lincoln leaned back on his heels. His eyes bored into me, making me entirely uncomfortable. I would not thank him. I refused. He had made the mess, so he was cleaning it up - that's all it was. As a challenge, I stared back at him, steely and unblinking.

Lincoln's hand came to my knee. I looked down, feeling nauseous as I watched his fingers glide across my spandex-covered leg. I scooted away.

And then it dropped - his hand returned to his side. My stomach squeezed. Without thinking I had once again done something to make him rigid. I could see how his torso tensed, muscles in his chest and shoulders going taut. What did he expect? That I would lay down and roll over upon his command, a dog trying to please its owner? If that was what he wanted then it would be a very long time until I behaved as well as Ribbon. I had a habitual reaction to please others but that did not mean I wanted to grace it on Lincoln. I had to admit - and I absolutely hated to admit it - that there were times when I was conflicted on how to respond to Lincoln.

The morning he made breakfast, I had only ate the pancakes because it seemed that was what he wanted. To a degree, I had wanted it to, despite the gnawing voice that said to defy him at all costs. There was a difference, though; Lincoln wanted to touch me. I did not want him to lay a finger on me ever again.

I sensed the feeling of an upcoming explosion, a punch or a slap or a hair pulling. That didn't happen. Lincoln stood up slowly, steadily, his hand unfolding from his side toward me. I craned my neck up at the monster, eyes narrowed. Without taking his hand I rose from the toilet. He did not protest. His eyes tightened.

There were fleeting moments when I held a power I didn't realize existed, and there were other times that power was not mine to take. I was starting to learn the absurd behavior of Lincoln but I didn't have it down pat quite yet. It would take time, and careful supervision, constant studying on when to play what cards. I was a rookie in a professional's game.

Lincoln led the way out of the bathroom. He made sure that I followed, closing the door as I exited. I watched his hand twitch as I walked by him. Following my every step, he guided me back to my room, his body much too close. I had to hug the wall as best I could to keep adequate distance between the two of us.

Moonlight danced on the linoleum of the kitchen, lighting our path as we shuffled across. I felt much like a prisoner; confined to a room with a guard - namely, Ribbon - to watch the doors at all time. Boarded windows doomed any chance of escape. I would not be surprised if barbed wire ran along the edges of the outside of the sill.

Lincoln stretched his arm above my head to reach the slightly-ajar door and push it open for me, a gentlemanly gesture. I hated it. I stomped into the room.

Whether he noticed my bitterness or not he didn't comment. He never commented. Lincoln stared, like any other time, his hard gray eyes direct and intrusive. Lincoln was digging through my mind with that stare, sifting through my thoughts, my intentions. My captor was reading me like a book and I could tell that he was in the way his facial features shifted. His brow, though somewhat concealed, whirled upward slightly. I wanted to think that if I could see his mouth, he would most likely be smiling.

I turned toward the bed. "Go away."

It was awfully silent. The click of the door closing caught me by surprise. I felt my entire body relax. Exhaustion combed my system. I no sooner laid my head down on the pillow before falling asleep.