Chapter 10

Tris

I awaken, but my eyes stay closed, hoping that sleep will overcome me; I won't have to face the terror I'm sure is planned. Please, go back to sleep.

I was 17, the last time I said those words to myself. It was the night before school photo day, and I knew that if sleep didn't knock on my front door, I'd be sporting some huge eye sockets of a deep grey colour, like I always did after a shit night's sleep. Of course, by me repeating 'please, go back to sleep',I ended up actually resting at around 4 in the morning, an instant guarantee of those horrific bags I dreaded.

"Just wear extra concealer when that happens," my friend, Susan had said the next day. But it's not like I could just add extra to something I didn't even own to begin with.

When I was 17, I had less issues to worry about, and my 'please, go back to sleep' is much more urgent this time around. It's not just a matter of flawless skin I'm talking about here.

Plus, the semi-darkness is mildly calming. Note the word semi. This isn't the same middle-of-the-night darkness, a bright glow creeps through, and I can tell it's either day or a light is shining somewhere.

My senses kicks in, and I am able to concentrate on everything around me, without actually putting in much effort, a bonus. The sound of faint voices is the first thing I recognise. The whispers are faint; I can't pick up any words. But they are there, all male. Thumps echo through space, they overlap, landing together, then begin to separate timings. Odd.

My fingers scratch along a surface beneath me, the nails digging into a soft material. I'm on a bed, I can tell that much from the sheet draped over my body and the stiff pillow supporting my head and neck. I hate stiff pillows.

And my nose picks up the strong scent of a male deodorant. Lime and spice…

Peter.

I open my eyes to a warm, yellowish glow emitting from a small chandelier above me, and I know immediately that nothing is as it seems.

I was kidnapped, why am I in a large room full of plush, sequinned cushions and scenic ocean view paintings? Why am I lying centred in a mammoth black bed with a purple and gold and black quilt? Why am I surrounded by plump, leather couches and drawers made of mirror squares? Why am I situated in such a classy, modern and expensive looking room painted in hollowing blacks and warm yellows and bright purples? I don't understand.

I immediately think of the movies in which girls like me get kidnapped and taken to abandoned warehouses. Moulding wood and rats. Poor girls forced to eat once every couple of days and sleep on the floor or a thin, rough blanket eaten through by moths. This, I can tell straight away, is nothing like that, and so I am confused.

I should be tied up in chains or blindfolded or smothered in dust or all of the above. Not laying in a room so exquisite.

The thing is, most people would be feeling quite joyful and comfortable. Why wouldn't you surrounded by such class! But I'm not 'most people'. I'm just Tris. And Tris doesn't feel comfortable or at home in fancy places. I am simple and plain. That's just me, I know, pathetic, but this room makes me feel uptight. I can't remember a time where I have felt happy in my own skin, and I sure as hell aren't now. But my thoughts keep drifting to: maybe they found me, and I have been taken somewhere safe…

But no, I can't think like that, hope destroys people like me, people who are destined for miserable lives. I can't have hope. There is no hope, not for someone as meaningless as me.

They're probably celebrating my capture, thankful I'm finally gone from their perfect lives. I may not be able to hope for myself, but I can at least hope they will be happy again, without me standing in the way.

A silent tear runs down my cheek, landing on my collarbone.

I am so weak and ugly and stupid. It's painful, trying to be what I'm expected to be, because I'm not. I am too useless to be what I am supposed to. There is no cure for someone as pathetic as me.

Why is Peter keeping me alive?

Why am I keeping myself alive?

I hear footsteps, slow and meaningful, move upwards, becoming louder and louder each passing second. I can hear breathing now—whether it's my own or the visitor's, I can't tell.

My heart picks up it's pace and I begin to quiver.

I am met with huge arms bulging with muscle, tanned all over. The limbs will and do create my bruising and breakage of skin and cracked bones due to their power. I am met with the dark, shiny hair that I would stare at while being thrown against a wall. I am met with eyes so green and deep, their mysteriousness used to make me smile in wonder, only now they feed me with a terror so fierce, I want to puke.

"Hello sweetheart."

I bite my lip, close my eyes. Nothing works, he's still here.

Peter.

His voice is sweet, too sweet, and filled with an almost sarcastic care. "I see you're awake, finally—okay that was sarcastic—How do you feel?"

Interesting, he may ask that, being the person who hit me with his fists and cut me with his knife.

Now I think about it, I feel okay, physically, of course. I'm still bruising, and the cuts along my skin are scarring, and my shoulders and stomach, along with the rest of my body, ache (mainly my nose), but that is all as expected. What I don't expect is the numbness in my left thigh.

I rip the sheet off, as exhausting as it is, and examine my leg. There is a bandage wrapped around my thigh, right where Peter's knife drove through my skin. I should be unable to move, moaning in pain; it's a stab wound! However all I feel is numb. Gently applying pressure on the bandage, I wonder: is it wrong to feel fully numb, yet fully in pain at the same time? Ugh, when have I ever not been wrong?

"I had a friend fix it up for you, should be fine, other than an ugly scar—he chuckles—your whole… you, is an ugly scar so…" He trails off. I look down at my hands, frowning.

I guess he's not wrong.

"You owe me, Beatrice, that leg would've infected, real bad, and I would've had to chop it off."

What is he playing at?

He walks towards me then, a smirk tugging at his lips and a stare daring me. He sits on the bed and reaches out a hand, tracing my chin chillingly, so much like the knife did yesterday. Surely that wasn't yesterday?

My heart leaps and I freeze, willing myself not to cry, to stop shaking so hard.

He whispers in my ear, knowingly. "I think I'm going to enjoy having you around, all the time, my wife."

It's like all the oxygen has escaped my lungs in one huge exhale, and I have to force myself to breathe. What?

I am so confused, yet so sure of what is going on here. And although I am terrified and undeniably at his full mercy, I don't actually feel as though any of it matters.

Suddenly, my left hand feels heavy; it starts to throb. My eyes travel to the hand, and I gasp, unable to hold in my surprise.

The ring finger on my left hand is like a canvas, with red and deep maroon colours trailing its length. Two bands, both thick and gold, are wrapped surely around the finger, one encasing a huge stone, the other holding three miniature stones. The rings don't look clean, In fact they look old and used. Confused, I squeeze the rings lightly against my finger.

"Agh," I bite my lip, watching as more blood oozes out from under the rings.

Looks like I am officially stuck with Peter Hayes. You know, since the rings are impaled into my skin!

Laughter. "You get 'one of a kind' rings, of course, and hey!" He pulls out a rectangle piece of paper and shoves it on my chest. "I know you weren't, well, awake when we got married but—he nudges the sheet still laying on my chest—here's a little memento, figure it proof."

Peter smiles, a smug, evil smile.

I take a breath, turning over the photo. Shit.

Peter's there, holding papers—legal documents—and wearing the same smirk that's on his face right now. He wears simple shorts and a smart shirt with a pathetic bow tie. I notice the ring on his hand, quite simple. A bottle of beer sits on a table. There's a chair, and I am sitting on it. All seemingly normal, except it's not.

I am wearing a white dress, so short, it only just cuts off what it needs to, but the bodice has slipped of my shoulders, exposing a breast. Peter's hand rests on the other one. My head has rolled so it's looking uncomfortably strained. My eyes are closed.

I don't know what bugs me more, the fact that I am—purposefully—half naked, or the fact that a leg is peeking out from the edge of the photo. Jeans and one Nike shoe. Peter's not working alone.

Why would anyone want to work with this monster? Why would anyone want to spend time doing anything that involves me?

More tears, and this time they're heavier. Gravity pulls them down onto my lap, dampening the pale, bone tight skin.

Ugly.

"STOP CRYING! Argghhh you're such a fucking wimp. At least act half happy to know you're going to be spending the rest of your pathetic days with someone as genuine and good looking as me. YOU STUPID BITCH!"

I can't stop crying. My life has gone to hell. It's worth nothing now. I'm worth nothing now, not if I can be thrown around, beat and used like a doll. A doll with no purpose. I could be thrown out at any moment, like a pathetic doll.

"YOU LIVE IN MY HOUSE NOW! WITH MY RULES! And if I tell you to stop crying, YOU FUCKING STOP CRYING!" He is yelling now, so close to my face, I can smell hamburger in his breath. "And if I tell you to clean or to cook, THAT IS WHAT YOU DO! DO YOU UNDERSTAND, BITCH? Just looking at you makes me want to SHOOT MYSELF! YOU'RE THAT DISGUSTING!"

He rears his fist back, seething, and slams it into my ribs, making me scream.

It hurts, all of it. The words. The jabs. The looks.

It hurts.

I throw up, emptying my stomach all over the quilt and his jeans.

"ARGHHHH WHAT THE HELL, TRIS? FUCKING WORTHLESS. THAT'S WHAT YOU ARE, BITCH!" He sneers, punching my jaw, not too hard for me to black out. He won't give me that satisfaction.

"Clean. This. Up. NOW!" With one last kick to the shoulder, I am left alone with my problems.

Peter

(Surprise!)

"Clean. This. Up. NOW!" Raising my leg, I kick her closest shoulder and leave the room.

"That should do it." I laugh.

I've fed her the vital stuff: the marriage, the rings, the fact that she's staying here forever. Along with the beatings and words and shit, all that human breaking stuff.

I think it's running smoothly, you know, 'cos of how terrified and miserable she looks, but hey! I'm just taking it day by day.

"She is disgusting though…" I mumble while removing my jeans and replacing them with a new non-vomited-on pair. This room, with clothes and essentials and another bed, is for moments just like this one, when the bitch is occupying my room, and I have to make a deliberate exit.

I'm well planned out and know exactly what I've got to do: break Tris.

That's my goal, because once she's fully gone, I'll be able to use her the rest of my life. She won't want to go back to her old life, she won't have the desire. I'll rip all the feeling out of her, until she's a robot, solely alive for the purpose of serving me.

She's not the first I've tried, I will admit. But I know Tris is going to work. I set the right scene, and I can already tell she thinks I'm speaking the truth. Well, I am mostly, she's a nuisance, an annoying little brat.

And I've got her right where I want her, there's no going back. Time to fully make her mine.

I can't help the smile that creeps onto my face, "Oh well…"

Hi all!

Sorry, it's kinda short, but at least you got an insight into Peter's plans… I know you may be confused, but I've got more info coming, and more insight into his sick plans.

I hope it is interesting for you, I wanted something a little different, and I am excited about the future surprises! But we are all going to have to be patient, the road is a long one for Tris!

I'm sorry there's no Fourtris, it breaks my heart, but let's say there will be a bright future ahead for them! How could I not?

Thanks for reading!

Thanks to the reviewers xx

Aubrey Cortez: I wish he was alive in real life… He's amazing! You mean Peter? Yeah, he's a real douche. Thanks for reading!

Claaaaaire: Wow Thank you so much! That means the world to me, the fact that there are people that get excited when I update! It's great! Yes, their love is just *holds back a sob* perfect! Peter sucks… Thanks again! Will update soon!

Aubreylovesthegames: Ahhh if I had Tobias as a boyfriend, I'd just… It'd be perfect! Thanks! I think that even though he is strong and tough and all, he has a big heart for Tris, and I wanted to let that show. I'm, going to reply here, thanks again!

Phoenix Brooke: Thanks for reviewing! I will!