Marlena woke up lying on a cold cement floor. She sat up and immediately wished she hadn’t when her head ignited into throbbing, pressurized chaos. The room spun, and her vision blurred for the first few minutes as she tried to piece together what happened. Then everything came flooding back like a tsunami.

John.

The shelter.

A hole in the ground.

 

Her eyes were still tightly shut as she stood up. The hallway was empty. She was at the end of a long corridor: concrete floors, concrete walls, concrete ceiling. There were many doors: on the left side, and on the right. All of them were closed or half-closed. There was a wall directly behind her, and the hole she fell from above her. 

 

Beyond the hallway, she could see the corridor curved left. She decided that was where she'd go first. Something was whispering in the back of her brain that she shouldn't. She walked on her bare tiptoes, carefully avoiding the broken sharp glasses on the floor.

 

She was obviously underground at some sort of a clinic. She could make out a large operation room to the left. To the right was a similar one. Everything was eerily quiet. Marlena crept down the hallway, her back to the wall. 

 

The white neon light flicked above her. 

Irritatedly. 

Two flicks and a stop.

Two flicks and a stop.

 

Every three seconds.

 

If she could find a way out, she would run. 

Get help. 

Call John.

Her mind went to the endless rage she saw in John’s eyes at the cabin. She pushed the thought away. 

There’s gotta be a way out … what was this place … a hospital...or a torture basement, maybe. God, why was it all so familiar? Why didn't she put on her shoes before she ran out that door.

She was all action and no brains. She was going to have to walk through broken glass and dirt with nothing on her feet.

 

The door to her right was open, the big glass window was stained, was it, blood...or dirt. She wasn’t sure. Marlena glanced down to the floor to make sure there was no broken glass and then walked in.

Something inside of her was screaming to let it go, to leave it all behind, to find a way out of that cold place, but there was something else. Something inside pulled on her feet, it was too powerful to resist, and she went with the motion. 

 

The inner floor was somewhat cleaner; her sore ankle slowed her walk. She found small syringes scattered around the hard floor; they were huge, the kind one would use to put down a horse. 

 

Her body shook. Someone was attacked here. Who did this?

She wanted to leave, wish she could break a window and go, but there were no windows.

 

She couldn’t breathe.

She couldn’t breathe.

She couldn’t breathe.

 

Doubled over, she took in measured breaths, mentally steeling herself. Then she tried to stand. With a groan, she grabbed hold of the cart. Her palm on the floor burnt, a liquid goo stuck to her skin, it stung. Pain webbed through her body. She hit the floor again, breath knocked from her lungs. Acute nausea gripped her before she could cry out, and she hurled herself onto her side. 

 

She lost her stomach right there on the floor. She wretched until her stomach was as empty as the room, and there was nothing left but bile. Flames licked her throat, and she mentally cursed herself for not leaving it all alone. When she rolled onto her back, the pain was a living, breathing demon within her. It raged, working its way to her shoulder blades. Her breath saws in and out. 

 

She blinked back tears against the sudden flickering that covered her vision. The flashes intensify, and she couldn’t be sure if it were from the pain in her leg or her palm. A loud sound boomed her head, in time with each flip of the light.

 

Light and dark. 

Her heart picked up the beat, her blood pulsing painfully in rhythm, syncing with the flickering. Like an 8mm film reel, scratchy images bleed through the haze of pain. Her mind was losing the battle. 

The plinks came faster, harder, creating a sonogram of vibrations against her eyelids. She tried to drift away, but the voices inside won’t let her go. 

 

The river of pines whispers from her past. Voices float through the thin branches to taunt her. 

 

You know.

 

She shook her head against the floor. The motion tipped her body over a cliff, and she was spiraling down, nowhere to land, nothing to catch her. 

 

“Stop.” The stream grew louder. 

 

She saw his boots coming down the steps, his weight bowing the railway. She heard the clink of the key entering the lock, then the squeak of the door opening. 

She panicked. 

 

What is she going to do to him? She looked to the man laying beside her. “Give me another syringe.” Her eyes opened with a start. 

 

No. no, no, no. 

 

She crawled away from the memory, toward that sliver of light. Where was it? God—where the fuck was it? The fall jarred something inside her. She heard Stefano’s voice: once you agree, there’s no going back. 

How far down does the rabbit hole go? It was John’s voice guiding her toward that light now as her fingers clawed the floor. Each push forward sent a steamy-hot whip of pain across her spinal cord. 

 

She absorbed the lashes, even welcomed them, because the pain was real. She knew it existed. But the memories flooding her mind were streaming too fast. 

Overwhelming. 

Her mind fractured, trying to separate truth from fiction. She was drugged. The sticky goo on the floor had to have drugged her. She clung to that hope, desperate for the images assaulting her head to dissolve back into the abyss. But where there was once darkness, a light shined, illuminating those haunted corners. 

 

She reached the cart and held on tight as she stood up. She was brought into a dark world—after she was ripped from the light. 

“He stole me.” Even as she delved deeper, the psychologist in her denies it all. Repressed memories weren’t credible. They were rarely ever accurate. They were the mind’s way of reshelving memories, sorting too many moments that we’re unable to catalog. 

 

She wanted to continue to deny it, but it was as if a cover had been lifted.

Everything so clear, so vivid. 

So real. 

And she’d never felt more alone. 

 

You know. 

 

She did know. She’d always known about the experiments because she was once one of them until he pulled her from the room and kept her for his own. 

He was a monster. He was a fucking mastermind. Of course, he was also her protector. 

 

Somehow she broke free, and left the other world behind, locking it away forever. The woman she was, was not the woman she is. But the voices tortured her...who was she, what was she… suddenly, there were too many of them. 

 

She shut down.

 

Almost losing her balance again, Marlena grasped a dirty supply hospital cart. There was an object on top. 

Round. Shiny, stainless steel appliance. 

For some reason, it looked brand new. 

 

God, where was she? 

 

It looked like no one had been there in years. There were no other houses for miles away above her. As soon as she walked inside that room, out of nowhere, she started shaking like a leaf, taking a deep breath, she closed her eyes.

 

Relax, Marlena. Deep breathes.

 

Keeping her legs rooted, she opened her tormented eyes, grabbing the ledge at the wall to steady her weight.

A voice came from deep within her; she knew nothing of where it came from or why, but her mouth opened with a cry, “All you do is hurt! You had no right to do this! Who the hell do you think you are?” she screamed at the room, her body shaking. 

 

Was she going insane?

John...

 

She couldn’t remember what happened, or what was this place, but the words kept coming out like vomit, “You are evil! I hate you! What sick fuck would do this to someone! We're not trying to help him; we're hurting him. YOU LAIR. Just like you always were!” she almost collapsed on the floor again. 

 

Her chest heaving, panting extensively. She could feel each and every memory that tortured her course through her mind, wreaking chaos all around her. She didn’t falter, though. Crudely limping, ignoring the throbbing pain in her leg. Each step more determined than the last. 

Stumbling, almost falling to her knees. It took everything in her not to run away, not to scream her lungs out. But she needed to face her fears, her darkness, her past. She leaned forward, grabbing as many beakers that scattered the floor and stood back up, teetering, the glass tubes cutting at her arms. 

 

She fiercely started hurling the beakers at the cabinet. One right after another, losing her balance with each forceful throw that erupted from her frail frame. Endless sobs escaping her mouth, her body shaking with fury. The tubes shattered, causing shards of glass to splatter everywhere. Deep, hard dents mangled the supply cabinet, and the siding came loose. Leaning forward again, she grabbed more tubes, throwing, aiming.

 

Frantically trying to bring down the room that caused her so much pain. She knew nothing of her past, but she could feel the pain, the agony “You put me here!” Another tube ricocheted. “You monster! The fucking devil!” 

Another. 

“You made him pay! I MADE HIM PAY! You shredded my soul!” Three more beakers. “I had no one in this world! You took everything from me!!” beaker after beaker after beaker recoiled off the fallen cabinet as she bawled her eyes out. 

“I fucking hate you! You sorry excuse for a monster! You and your creations” she’d never broken down like that before. 

 

Her mind was running wild; she couldn’t get it to stop, the memories and images playing out in front of her, with no end in sight. Remembering the last time she was in pain. Hurt and tortured. 

She threw every last tube she could at the wall and cabinet till it finally popped open. Frustrated her handy work wouldn’t tear it down completely. 

The supply cabinet that ran the length of the wall was broken but not due to her assault. In the corner, there was a heavy circular table with two curved benches on either side. She walked to the steel doors and pulled it open. 

Medical records. There were hundreds of them, all lined up in a row. She picked out the widest one, and a small blue notebook fell right out of it.

 

She thought twice and opened it. 

​

It was her handwriting. 

 

Oh, no.

No.

No.

It can’t be.

 

“December 1985.

              

                   I am not yet healed. The pain, even the physical one is still very much alive. Stefano took me in after he found me on the floor of my room that night. I’m not talking about what happened, but he knows. Somehow he knows. My sanity is slipping away. He is trying to keep me here; keep me safe. I need fresh air; I need to see the sky, to feel the wind on my face. I’ve been down here for far too long. He says it’s for my own good.

 

Last night they brought him in. 

I could barely look at him.

I want to make him pay.

 

                  He doesn't want me on the force anymore; it’s been many nights since he came to me. Last night when he did, he looked anguished and sad, he refused to talk about it, and I understand. He wanted me to run some tests, and I feel awkward wearing scrubs again or practicing medicine. Something about it feels oddly familiar. I want to make him hurt, but could I? 

Last night I came in as they finished with their branding, they were high as kites.

And I know what must I do.”

 

​
 

She was suffocating, couldn’t breathe. She felt pins and needles in her limbs as the fear became the stepping stone to a full-out panic attack. Shivers racked her body, and she started hyperventilating. Tears streamed down her cheeks then dripped onto her collar bone and slid into the material of her white gown.

 

Losing her footing, she fell to the ground, clutching the pages in her hands. Screaming out in pain. Instantly placing her hands over her ears, trying to tune out the voices that surrounded her everywhere. 

Desperately trying to shut out the past. 

 

The air, it was appalling. The smell of burnt skin hit her nostrils, and she needed to find a way out. 

Carefully, she stood back on her feet, her legs throwing her back out into the hallway.

Turning the corner, she found a round room; books lined one wall; on the other was a once working fireplace. A sofa and a loveseat were arranged around a coffee table. There was no way out, and she was walking for quite some time now. 

She looked for something to break one of the closed doors with. The coffee table was too heavy for her to lift—especially with a sprained ankle. 

 

When she looked more closely, she saw that it was bolted to the floor. There were no chairs. She went back to the operation room, opened every cabinet and drawer, her desperation increasing with every second she spent there. 

 

There was nothing large enough or heavy enough to break a door. With a sinking feeling, she realized she was going to have to wait for John to find a way down there. 

Staring at the big folder in her hands, she noticed the names Fernando and John were handley written on its cover.

​

​

''Hit Me Baby One More Time'' by J2 

 

This could be a trap.

This could be one of Stefano’s setups.

There could be something behind one of the doors. Maybe it was Fernando’s plan all along. Bringing them both there so he could extort the information he thinks they hold about his past. But why like this? Why not take them there to begin with? 

 

Was he playing games? 

Her whole body was shaking as she went back to the round room. She hadn't cried in a long time, but she felt as close to tears as she’d ever came. 

 

One foot in front of the other, Marlena, and if something jumps out at you, you fight. 

 

She was back in the room. She could hear herself breathing: ragged, cold, terrified breaths. There were sounds.

Who was it?

 

“Oh, my God.” 

She slapped her hand over her mouth and clutched the folder tighter. 

 

She didn’t lower it; she kept it close to her chest. She stepped onto the carpet, her toes curling around the dirty shag like they needed to hold onto something. A canopy bed sat against the far wall, facing her. It was trashed. Two of its pillar were life-sized phoenixes, their supporting poles disappearing into the wooden beams of the ceiling. A floral porcelain tea set covered the bed stand.

Marlena could barely recall the last time she ate or drank something.

 

The voices grew loader like they were coming from the AC system, no, the pipeline, no. 

 

Where did it come from?

 

There was a fireplace to her left, a big painted picture of a mansion to her right. The words *"Mansion Noir" (*The black Mansion) scribbled at the bottom of the drawing. Marlena was having trouble breathing. First the lights, then the operation room, the drug then … this. 

 

She couldn’t get out of there fast enough. 

She closed the door behind her, standing with her back to the big fireplace.

The sounds.

She could hear them again, but she could hardly make out the words. She turned to face the big wooden hole in the wall — the fireplace.

That was where the sounds came from.

Falling to her knees, she stuck her head inside, trying to make sense of the hummings.

Every second felt more frightening than the last. Was it just her intuition, or was this John?

The sound of the man she loves mingled with yet another familiar tone.

Fernando.

“Oh my God...I’m under the cabin..” the voices stilled.

Her breath curling into the air, and the frozen fingers of her hand clutching the folder. 

“John! John, I’m here! I’m down here!” her screams echoed the halls.

Nothing. 

 

Why couldn't he hear her?

 

She stood up with her injured ankle and flinched when pain shot up her leg. 

The room was dark, but so far, nothing has jumped out at her. She took a step forward, felt for a light switch. Then she heard it; a man’s moan—deep and guttural followed by footsteps. Steady and bold. 

 

​

She backed to the wall, wishing she had picked up one of the broken glasses to use her as a weapon. She wanted to run, get back up where she fell from. 

She couldn't.

If she were not able to go up through what brought her there, she would have to face what was down there, but she will not be a victim. 

 

Not again. 

 

Her heart was beating erratically. 

 

The footsteps suddenly stopped as if someone realized she was there. She could hear him breathing. She wondered if he could hear her. The steps started again; muffled words were added this time as if it was speaking through something. 

Words … words that sounded like MARLENA.

 

The man chuckled then strode away, and she heard him talking with another guy, but she couldn’t understand them. She was facing a brick fireplace with her feet, barely able to touch the floor. Completely helpless. Fear crept across her skin. Was this, John?

 

“John?”

She heard a door creak open, “Stay the fuck away, Giovanni.”

She broke. 

John’s voice swam into her trembling body and wrapped her in its warmth. She started sobbing, her head falling forward, making her arms and shoulders scream in pain as she shook. John had come for her. 

He was there to take her away. 

To stop the pain.

Taking a step towards him, she stopped.

 

“She’s yours when I tell you she is. And lose the attitude or our deal is finished.” 

Silence. 

She could hear the wind whistling through the fireplace. 

“Our deal is solid, Black.” 

John? What were they talking about? What deal? A deal to get her out of there? To take her back home to her family and friends? 

She turned around to see him, but she couldn’t get much but his shadow. 

Laughter. 

Cold. 

Violent. 

Sinister. 

It was like the crackle of fireworks mixed with the screech of tires on wet pavement. 

“She likes it rough, as I recall.” John’s tone deepened, and all amusement left it. “Get us the answers, G.”

 

“John?” she finally yelled. “John, I'm here!” 

“Pretty lady,” His voice. It was different. 

Colder. 

John always exuded warmth, but this change was more than that. Like anger simmering beneath the surface. Why wasn’t he running to her? Holding her in his arms? How did he get down there, unharmed? 

Why was he talking to Fernando like that? 

Did he not see her? She was right there.

 

Oh, God. No. Please. No. 

 

She was drowning.

​

“JOHN! Look at me!” she shouted, running to his dark figure at the doorway.

“One word and I’ll slice you wide open. You got that my pretty lady?” John’s words were stiff and controlled. 

“Oh God! John, snap out of it, it’s Marlena!”

Suddenly she felt a body behind her, and she panicked as she smelled the familiar scent of Fernando. A hand slowly slid down her back and then stopped on her ass. He squeezed, and she winced as his fingers cut into the fabric. She could feel his body against hers; his hard cock pressed into her.

"Jo-"

Marlena moaned and shook violently, causing her body to sway on his hold. He laughed in her ear, his breath wafting across her cheek. His hand slid further down, hesitated, then cupped his hand between her legs. She cried louder, the pain in her ankle resonated through her body. “Don’t touch me, you bastard! John..help me…why won’t you help me?...” she stopped squirming. 

 

“He won’t help you anymore. No one will,” Fernando whispered in her ear.

“NO!” Fighting against his strong hands, she leaned against his chest; John stood as a statue letting her cry on him, he let her soak him with her tears. 

 

Once her sobs quiet and she felt like she’d gotten most of it out, Fernando pulled her back to him, murmured. “Now, you’re gonna be a good girl....don't worry, my dear. I don’t want to talk; we just want to make you pay.”