Red bulbs hung from the low ceiling, flickering intermittently, and the sound of my footsteps echoed eerily, waking me from whatever trance I’d been in.

I could hear my teeth scraping together as my jaw clenched, the sound unnerving. Beads of sweat trickled down my face like raindrops on glass. I hadn’t been running, yet somehow, I was exhausted—my arms limp with fatigue, my chest rising and falling rapidly as I gasped for breath. My heart thundered in my chest like I’d just escaped a nightmare—only this one, I couldn’t wake from.

My vision was mostly hazy, a swirling mist clouding the edges. All I could see were smears of what looked like blood on the walls and floor—whichever direction my head turned. The red light masked everything too well; there was no way to tell if the stains were truly blood or just shadows pretending to be. Everything was bathed in crimson. Dead bodies and severed limbs lay scattered like forgotten dolls, the air reeking of rot and decay. The smell was so strong, I could almost taste it.

I felt like crying. I wanted to speak. But my eyelids wouldn’t move, and my lips wouldn’t budge. I struggled internally—I tried to scream, tried to cry out—but instead, a smooth, quiet, melodic hum escaped my throat. It echoed through the dim room like a lullaby from hell as my legs moved on their own. At this point, no one needed to tell me I’d lost control of my own body.

“Please, please let me go.” A man’s voice came from a corner of the room. I wasn’t sure, but I felt like I’d heard it before—familiar and broken. “Please, you’ve taken everything—my wealth, my family. Don’t kill me,” he pleaded, his voice cracking. He sounded utterly defeated. His words slurred together like he was drunk or barely able to function.

“Hmmm, the black room greets you, sir. Won’t you answer? The black room says hello. The black room wants your eyes and arms—and it wants what’s down below.” My voice sang a haunting tune with lyrics I’d never heard before in my life.

Without my permission, my legs carried me forward. The squelch of blood beneath my feet was drowned out by the humming—my humming. Ahead, a metal table glimmered like a shrine. A spread of tools lay upon it—ordinary things: wrenches, saws, pliers, pincers, scissors—all glinting under the red glow like relics from a butcher’s dream.

But there were stranger tools too. Chains, scalpels, machetes, kitchen knives… even a pistol.

Where the hell did I get all this? Why did it feel so... familiar?

My right hand moved slowly over them, my eyes trailing the metallic gleam like I was choosing the perfect accessory. I felt my lips curl into a chilling smile as my fingers brushed a large pair of pliers—my hands savoring the cold metal.

My arms raised them with eerie slowness, and I turned to face the corner from where the voice had called.

My stomach dropped at the sight. He hung from the ceiling by his arms, chained, completely naked. His head drooped forward like he was unconscious, but he wasn’t—just too weak to fight. His body was covered in deep, raw wounds. Large patches of flesh had been peeled from his torso and limbs. Several of his toes were gone, and a section of his skull was fully exposed, as though someone had carved him open.

As I stepped closer, he let out a pained, pitiful moan. “Please… I beg you.”

“The black room adores you; it loves when you rejoice.” My voice continued its haunting melody as my hands opened the pliers. I extended them toward him until his testicles rested between the metal jaws. “The black room enjoys your pain—and the sound of your lovely voice.”

I wanted to turn away. I wanted to shut my eyes and scream. But all I could do was watch in terror as my hands squeezed the pliers shut—my smile widening grotesquely.

~Four years earlier~

I sat in a dimly lit room, my back pressed against the frame of my marital bed, surrounded by the sharp stench of alcohol, cigarettes, and blood. The sheets beneath me were soaked with red, and the floor was a graveyard of shattered ornaments, splintered furniture, and broken bottles.

My breathing was labored. My vision was blurred by the tears swelling at the corners of my swollen eyes. A deep cut split the left side of my lower lip, and blood streaked my face and white dress like war paint.

The red came from bruises—on my cheeks, nose, mouth, arms, legs. It felt like my whole body was one giant ache.

I wanted to scream, to cry, to beg for someone to pull me out of this nightmare—but I had no strength. I’d cried so much already that my tear ducts were dry. I scraped together what little energy I had to glance at the divorce papers in front of me. A golden-handled pen lay beside them, its polished body catching the light of the flickering candles. It mocked me—mocked everything I’d endured.

This is what it had come to.

After five years of being trapped in this godless marriage—five years of praying things might change—I was being discarded like a toy a child no longer wanted. I had become nothing. A broken thing.

Suddenly, the bedroom door burst open, and my dear husband backed into the room. I didn’t need to lift my head. His scent gave him away—so did the presence of his guest. A woman’s red heels flashed from the doorway, and my stomach twisted. This wasn’t the first time Richard had brought someone home, but this time… something was different.

Those heels were unique. Exclusive. Only a select few in the entire state owned a pair.

I heard them kiss. Heard the wet sounds of lips and tongues colliding. Heard her soft, breathy moans as Richard groped her like he’d never touched a woman before. Each moan stabbed into my chest. My blood boiled with rage, sorrow, and something darker. I thought I had no tears left—but they came, slowly, painfully, slipping down my cheeks.

I forced myself to look up—and our eyes met.

Just a beat passed before the woman’s lips curled in disgust. “Ew. What is she still doing here?” she sneered, her voice thick with contempt as she stared at me like I was filth. I never knew she was capable of making such a face—not at me. Her eyes brimmed with pure hatred, and for a moment, I wondered if the person standing before me was really my best friend.

Richard turned to me sharply.

“You still haven’t signed the divorce papers?!” he barked; his voice laced with fury. He stormed toward me. I tried to back away, but the fucking bed blocked my path. Trapped, I turned again to face him, my eyes wide with terror as he pulled his right fist back.

That final second of silence—staring into his blazing golden-brown eyes—was enough to confirm what I’d tried to deny for far too long: marrying him had been the worst mistake of my life. This was my punishment.

Without a flicker of remorse, he swung his fist toward me like I was nothing but a ragdoll.

~Present day~

“So, what do you do for a living?” Harold’s voice cut through the haze of my memories.

I blinked, snapping back to the present, and stared into his night-black eyes as if frozen in time. The warm glow of the restaurant’s amber chandeliers danced across his face, highlighting his sharp, masculine features—as though the universe itself was trying to tell me he was the man of my dreams. For a long time, I had prayed for a sign like this. But fear... fear never let me dream too far.

“What?” I asked, not having heard him clearly.

“I asked what you do for a living,” Harold repeated, swirling his wine glass gently, a flicker of concern in his eyes.

“Oh, umm... I’m a surgeon. Basically, I fix what’s broken in people. Sometimes it’s a long process, sometimes short and simple. You could call me a biological mechanic,” I replied.

He chuckled. “You’re a funny one, aren’t you?”

“My… friends say I have a weird sense of humor,” I said with a small laugh of my own.

We fell silent. Just... staring. Eyes locked, like we were peering into each other’s souls—his eyes black as midnight, mine golden-orange like firelight glinting in the sun.

“You’re a beautiful woman, Angel,” Harold said gently. “But I can’t help but notice—you’ve had a rough past. That’s why you’re so distant.”

“Me? Distant? I’m right here,” I said, forcing a smile. “What are you—”

I stopped. His expression told me everything.

“When I arrived, I tried to kiss your hand. You pulled away. I reached to pull your chair out, but you rushed to do it yourself. And you haven’t touched your food or your wine in fifteen minutes.”

He leaned forward, fingers intertwined, and asked softly, “Tell me about your past.”

My past... I stared at him blankly, the question echoing in my head. I reached for my purse and stood up.

“My past is my past. Don’t meddle,” I hissed, then turned and walked away.

Even as I stepped out into the cool night air, I could feel his gaze—silent, curious, lingering.

~Two days later~

“Good morning, Miss Angel. How are you today?” Christine’s voice was calm and gentle, as always. Her tone never changed—soft, soothing, but somehow mechanical. Sometimes I wondered if she was really human, or if therapists were just trained to sound like perfectly programmed machines.

“I’m… doing fine. It’s been a rough week, but nothing out of the ordinary,” I replied, staring up at the spotless white ceiling. My body sank deeper into the lounge chair, its cushion cradling me like a lullaby. The tension I’d carried all week slowly began to melt away.

The chair rocked back and forth, so subtly it felt almost still. But like my thoughts, it wasn’t still at all. There were shifts, fluctuations. Gaps. I closed my eyes and exhaled slowly.

“Tell me about your week. Any episodes?” Christine asked.

“No. Very few of those lately. It’s almost like they’re completely gone.” I paused. “My week was... normal, I guess. I diagnosed a few patients, performed brain surgery to remove a tumor, and... I went on a date.”

“Oh? That’s new.” Her voice perked up just enough to betray her curiosity. For a moment, the calm therapist facade cracked, revealing a woman itching for details.

“It was just some guy I met Tuesday morning on my way to get coffee,” I said, the memory playing in my mind like a soft reel. “We were both rushing somewhere, and we bumped into each other outside the café. My papers went flying, and he helped me pick them up. I was going to walk away, but then… he asked for my number.”

Typical love story bullshit. The kind that always ends in tears. The universe hated me. The feeling was mutual.

“How did the date go?” Christine asked, too hopeful for my comfort.

I sighed. “I kind of… liked him. He was nice. The way he smiled. The way he spoke. The softness in his eyes—it was all so... entrancing. But then he asked about my past, and I freaked out. Walked out on him. Haven’t seen him since.”

Christine let out a soft sigh, like she was the one who’d ruined the date.

“Angel, listen. We’ve gone over this time and time again. Look at how far you’ve come. You’ve overcome the drugs, the depression...”

The chair continued to rock, and in my mind, a flicker of a memory resurfaced—me tying off my arm, needle in hand. Another image: me curled up in a dark room, sobbing, surrounded by pills and half-empty bottles.

“You’ve come so far that you’re even allowed to perform surgeries again. You’re not the woman you used to be. You’re free now. Free of your past. It’s time to spread your wings and start living again. It’s okay to share your story. Sometimes, that’s how we let go—by letting someone else carry the weight with us.”

The chair rocked again. Richard’s face flashed in my mind. That smile of his—twisted, manic, carved straight from my nightmares. No matter how many therapy sessions I endured, I could never seem to banish that face.

“Look,” Christine said gently. “He noticed you’ve had a troubled past, and he still asked. That means he cares. Don’t let this chance slip away.”

Her words cut through the room like a sharp whistle—piercing, too loud, too real.

And in that moment... I lost it.

—

“An opportunity? You’ve got to be kidding me,” I snapped. “Do you have any idea what I went through in the hands of a man I thought loved me when we got married?”

“I do, Ange—” Christine began.

“No, you don’t!” I shot up, grabbing her collar with trembling hands. “Because you weren’t fucking there! You weren’t the one getting punched over and over because the food was too salty. You weren’t the one drenched in blood after every horrible excuse for sex. You weren’t the one with a broken collarbone and a black eye, lying to his family just to stay in a marriage you knew would eventually fucking kill you!”

I hissed at her, eyes wide with fury, as she stared back at me—frozen, horrified.

—

“I ruined our date,” I murmured, eyes snapping open. “And I’m not going on another one. That one was just a mistake… something that’ll never happen again.”

Thankfully, all of that had been in my head. If I ever unleashed that part of me on Christine, she’d need a therapist.

“I see,” Christine said, sighing softly. “I guess we’re not there yet. Just remember—not everyone means you harm. Yes, there are bad men out there… but there are good ones too. You can’t lump them all together because of one man’s mistakes. It’s time to let yourself breathe, Angel. To let go of what happened four years ago.”

She leaned forward a bit, her voice gentle. “I’m here for you whenever you want to talk, okay?”

“That’s because I pay you. But sure… whatever,” I muttered, sitting up and reaching for my bag.

Christine and I both rose. She extended her hand, and I shook it.

“You should keep taking your medications,” she said with a bright, almost motherly smile. “I’m proud of your progress—but you’ve still got a ways to go.”

I exhaled and nodded.

She opened her mouth again. “And I think it’s about time to reach out to your fami—”

“Don’t push it,” I cut in quickly, my tone cold and dismissive. I turned on my heel and made for the exit.

***

My house wasn’t far from Christine’s clinic. In Forest Hills, everything felt just close enough to reach but far enough to stay separate. A taxi took twelve minutes. The bus took twenty.

The cab stopped between two trees in front of my home. I paid the fare and stepped out, then stood there for a moment, just... staring.

It was a modest bungalow—brown exterior, pale yellow interior. The roof was stacked with thick, dark grey clay tiles, and a narrow chimney jutted out from the top. The walls were solid concrete brick, and the small front yard was covered in neatly trimmed grass. A low wooden fence framed the property, and a dented metal mailbox stood just outside the gate like an old friend too tired to leave.

“How did my life come to this?” I muttered, a bitter taste rising in my throat. Things might’ve been different—better—if I hadn’t disobeyed my family to marry that bastard.

Maybe Richard was the universe’s way of showing me that no one gave a damn about me. That I was nothing but a forgotten rag doll to the world.

No one came to see me at the hospital that night. Not my sister. Not my brothers. Not even my own mother.

The one person who might’ve cared enough to call… died long before the wedding.

My father.

I walked through the fence and into the yard, then approached the door. Inside, I tossed my bag onto the couch and headed toward the kitchen, kicking off my shoes at the threshold.

“Now I just have to stuff my face with ice cream until I pass out,” I muttered to myself—I needed to pass out.

I stopped cold at the entrance of the kitchen.

The chaos from last night’s breakdown still lingered like a fresh crime scene. Everything was exactly as I had left it.

But something about it felt off.

Last night wasn’t like the others. I remembered the spiral, the crash—but this time, it had felt like I wasn’t even me. Like my mind had been hijacked by something... darker. Thoughts I’d never dared to entertain crawled out of hiding and took over.

Evil thoughts.

Even now, they sent chills down my spine.

The kitchen shelves had been torn apart like fabric. Cutlery, broken dishes, shattered bottles, pots and pans scattered across the floor. Cooking oil stained the tiles, and the walls—god, the walls—were streaked with red lipstick.

One word, again and again.

“Ragdoll.”

It had haunted me ever since I said “I do.”

I took a deep breath, trying to ground myself. I couldn’t afford another outburst. I crouched to begin picking up the broken pieces of glass and ceramic.

“What caused this?” I whispered, trying to remember what had triggered me. My memories of the night were blurry—like a film with missing reels.

As I lifted a large shard of ceramic, I noticed a piece of newspaper beneath it, soaked in oil. There was a black-and-white photo on it.

I squinted. My breath caught.

I knew that face.

The trigger for last night’s breakdown wasn’t a memory or a dream. It was news.

Richard had been released from prison.

The night of the fire came rushing back like a tidal wave. I could see myself, panicked and crying, knocking over the candles in a desperate attempt to escape him. I remembered the smoke. The flames. I remembered Richard and Jennifer walking away—leaving me to burn.

Four years ago today, Richard had been thrown in prison for domestic abuse. The court ruled in my favor, awarding me a large portion of his wealth.

And now he was free.

“Richard is back...” I whispered, staring down at the paper with trembling hands.

That same haunting smile flashed through my mind like lightning in a storm.

“He’s coming for me.”

I’d lied to my therapist about the episodes—those moments when I lashed out and destroyed everything around me. The drugs had stopped working a while ago, and my refusal to switch to something stronger—to stop the hallucinations, blackouts, and the growing gaps in my memory—was finally coming back to smack me in the face.

My old excuse was that the pills were just empty promises. Now, I had a new excuse. A bigger one. A problem I could no longer ignore.

The shards of glass and ceramic dropped from my hand as my face twisted in horror. Images from my past surged through my mind, blow after blow, each one fanning the flames of hatred in my chest. Hatred that had filled the hollow space where love and life once bloomed. I gritted my teeth and pressed my palms against the sides of my head.

Clamping my eyes shut, I let out a guttural scream—one loud enough to alert the neighbors.

“No… no. This can’t be happening,” I whimpered as tears spilled down my cheeks. This feeling of fear, of helplessness... it never got easier. The thought of that evil man showing up at my door again terrified me. But what terrified me even more was the fact that I was completely and utterly alone in the world.

Staggering out of the kitchen, I whimpered, my makeup streaking down my face in ruin.

Then I noticed it.

A red light blinking ominously on the connection box of my home phone, mounted on the right wall just beside the kitchen entrance.

My mind went blank. It was the first time I’d seen that light blink since I installed the damn thing.

“Blue light for the phone company. Red light for voicemail,” I muttered shakily, staring at it. “A voicemail? That’s new.”

I stepped toward it slowly, my hand trembling like I’d just stepped out of an ice bath.

“Could he have already found me?” I whispered, pausing just before grabbing the receiver.

With a breath, I picked it up and brought it to my ear. Silence. For a few seconds, all I heard was a low hum. No voice. No message. Just a reminder that someone had called—and I wasn’t there to answer.

I pressed the button beneath the red light.

“Hey, Angel. It’s me, Harold,” his voice echoed into my ear, and my eyes widened. “Umm… I wanted to apologize for our date a few nights ago. I didn’t think you’d pick up a call from me, so I figured I’d try your home line. I honestly hope this is it—there were a lot of people named Angel in Forest Hills,” he chuckled.

“Imagine this is the wrong person,” he laughed again. “Anyway, I was wondering if I could make it up to you with a simple coffee date. Nothing too fancy, nothing too grand. Just you and me at that café we met. I promise, no weird questions this time. Call or text me if you’re interested.”

The message ended.

I pulled the phone from my ear slowly.

“Is this guy some kind of stalker?” I whispered, brow furrowing. I hung the receiver back on the wall and sank to the floor, pressing my back against the cold wall behind me.

Oddly... I felt calmer.

Only moments ago, I was unraveling. Now, all I could think about was getting that ice cream again.

“An opportunity, huh?” I murmured, remembering what Dr. Christine had said during our last session. Maybe she was right. Maybe letting someone in wasn’t the worst idea.

But the thing about starting a new relationship in my current state was all the what-ifs.

What if I told him about my past and he looked at me with disgust?

What if he saw me as damaged?

No one wants a broken toy.

I wrapped my arms around my knees and buried my face in my own cold embrace.

“No one wants a worn-out ragdoll.”

All the anger, all the hatred I’d bottled up—it wasn’t aimed at others. Not anymore.

It was toward myself.

For not being strong enough.

For being so helpless in the face of danger.

For falling for the most obvious scam the world had to offer: love.

For not learning my lesson.

---

Hours later, I found myself sitting at the café.

The sun’s rays streamed through the tall glass walls, warm and golden. Sunday afternoons in Forest Hills were always peaceful—filled with laughter, joy, and the soft hum of passing conversations. The scent of freshly brewed coffee filled the air, and I sat in the perfect spot to take it all in.

I wore something simple: a checkered shirt, jeans, and light makeup. Nothing too attention-grabbing. I mean, who shows up to a coffee date in a ball gown?

It had been fifteen whole minutes since I arrived.

I was starting to worry.

Had I hoped too much?

Did the universe really hate me that much?

My fingers tapped anxiously on the table—dry, rhythmic sounds that echoed in my skull. I could feel the gazes of other customers on me, hear the murmurs and soft chatter. It felt like they were all whispering about me, even if they weren’t.

I wanted to melt.

Vanish.

What was I thinking coming here?

“This was a mistake. I should leave.”

Just then, a waitress approached.

“Madam, I’m sorry to bother you,” she said kindly. “But you’ve been sitting here a while, and you haven’t ordered anything. Are you waiting for someone?”

“Well, umm...” I hesitated. What was I supposed to say? I’d texted Harold a few times and gotten no reply. The café sounds suddenly grew louder—glasses clinking, people chewing, laughter—it all crashed in my ears.

I should go.

I was about to rise when I heard a voice behind me.

“I’ll have a mango smoothie. And she’ll have… whatever she wants.”

I exhaled, relief flooding me.

“I’ll have that as well, thank you,” I said quickly.

“Okay then, I’ll be right back with your orders,” the waitress said with a smile before walking away.

“I know what you’re going to say,” Harold said, coming around the table and taking the seat across from me. “I’m late. I know. And I deeply apologize for my tardiness.”

That voice of his... I finally understood why it calmed me earlier.

“Whatever,” I murmured, brushing a few strands of hair behind my ear. “I’m just glad you didn’t ditch me.”

“There was an issue at the company—something I had to deal with before coming here,” Harold explained.

“What happened?” I asked, curious.

“Oh, nothing to worry about. Just a small celebration for the return of someone very important to the business—and to New York as a whole,” he said, strangely vague.

Then he added, “Listen, Angel. About our last date—”

“No, no, please,” I interrupted. “I should be the one apologizing. You asked a harmless question, and I walked out without a word. Honestly, I didn’t think you’d ever call me again… let alone go digging for my home number,” I admitted, my voice growing fragile.

“Well, obviously it wasn’t a harmless question,” Harold said, and I slowly looked up to meet his eyes. “You’re afraid of sharing your past because you think people will reject you. You think they’ll call you crazy or push you away. But… that’s not true. At least not for me.”

“We don’t know that yet, do we?” I replied softly, my eyes glancing sideways before returning to his.

The waitress returned, placing our smoothies and napkins on the table.

“Enjoy,” she said, then left.

“Try me,” Harold said, flashing a warm smile.

“Let’s see how today goes first,” I replied, smiling gently in return.