The Break-Up Retreat(89)

When I look over at the woman in the chair, her name comes back to me, too. And her face, not bloody and terrified like it is now, but calm, and strong, and intimidating.

Martina. That’s Doctor Martina.

Where is Armin? Armin was here. Where is he?

Anna straightens up again, and she clasps her hands in front of her, and when she smiles, it lights up her whole face.

“You know, at first I was just going to leave you there with the others,” she tells me. “But then I thought better of it. You deserve to be here, too.”

“What?” I try to say, but other memories are reappearing, now, muddled and confused.

Rain, and cold, and fear.

I was running. We were all running. We were trying to get away, because—because—

Anna’s smile grows wider.

So many teeth.

“When I found out about you, I actually thought about just telling you,” she muses. “Maybe I should have. I should have trusted you. But I was scared, you see. I was worried it would all go wrong.”

“You’re . . .” I blink, hard, as she turns double for a second.

She turns and walks away, over to the desk.

The glass of water slips out of my hands and tumbles onto the floor, icy cold water spilling over my feet.

She stands behind Martina and looks down at her.

Her face twists into cruelty.

I hear Martina trying to scream behind the gag. A muffled, pathetic sound.

I have to do something. What is it I’m supposed to do?

Anna looks over at me, and there’s a spark in her eye. Like we’re sharing a private joke, she and I.

“What do you think, Isobel?” Her voice a coquettish joke. “Because I think it’s time to start the show.”

She doesn’t wait for me to respond. Instead, she reaches down and pulls the gag out of Martina’s mouth.

“Time for your therapy, Doctor,” she spits, and as Martina begins to scream, it all comes back to me in a crushing, all-consuming wave.





Chapter 51


Anna slaps Martina hard in the face, and Martina yelps, an instinctive sound of pain, and begins to cry.

“Stop,” I try to say, but it just comes out as a croaking sound.

It feels like a nightmare, running from a monster with the air thick as syrup, screaming without a voice.

Martina’s head has fallen forward. Anna is staring at her, unmitigated hatred on her face.

“Come on, Doctor,” she says, her voice a parody of the syrupy sweet tone she’s been speaking in so far. “Don’t be like that.”

She grabs Martina’s soaked hair and tugs at it, so hard it brings a groan from my throat, and Martina’s head snaps back, her eyes wide in fear.

“Please,” I hear Martina try to whisper. “Stop.”

“Good girl!” Anna coos. “Look at that. I knew I could get you to pay attention.”

She reaches down and tugs at the rope tying Martina to the chair. It’s thin twine, and I can see it cutting painfully into her skin, digging welts into her arms.

“All good?” Anna asks her. “Comfortable?” The smile on her face isn’t a smile at all. It’s what children see in the dark.

“Please, Anna,” Martina whispers. Her lips are swollen and bruised.

Anna walks around the desk, slowly, and as she reaches Martina’s chair, she shoots me a conspiratorial little glance.

A wink of a smile.

Then she sits down, and she clasps her hands together in front of her, in a pitch-perfect imitation of Martina herself.

“So, Martina,” she says. “Are you ready to begin your session?”

“Why are you doing this?” Martina asks, and she begins to cry again.

Anna pauses. Her eyes linger on Martina, lit with a strange, glowing joy; she’s drinking her in, this broken vessel of a woman.

Then she sighs, and she shakes her head. Her blond hair, now dry, dances on her shoulders, the movement dizzying to my drunken eyes.

“Where to begin, Martina? You’ve ruined so many lives. And what more, you take absolutely no responsibility for it.”

She raises her eyebrows.

“Here at the Himlafall Clinic, we take responsibility very seriously. Remember?”

Her voice grows sharp, the last word like the crack of a whip.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Martina whispers. “Please, I’ll do anything you want. Just let me go. You can have whatever you want. Just please, stop this.”

Anna sighs, her shoulders rising and falling.

“See, this, right here, Martina, is the problem. You won’t acknowledge your own fault in things. You prefer to just look away.”

She looks over at me.

“Right, Isobel?”

She doesn’t wait for me to respond.

I have to get up. I have to stop this. But I can’t remember how. My body isn’t mine; it won’t respond to my commands.

“How about we start with one of your favorite exercises, Doctor ?” Anna sneers. “How about we start with you telling me what you think you’ve done wrong.”

Martina opens her mouth. Her lips are reddened with blood, in a horrific parody of the lipstick she usually wears.

“I don’t know.” Her voice is raw with tears and pain. “I don’t know what you want me to say.”