The Price You Pay

Prelude

WARNING: Before you read this story, please read my warning carefully. The story contains dark themes such as abuse and violence. It deals with the aftermath of child abuse. If you are a victim of abuse, I suggest you consider carefully before you read this. There are definitely some topics in here that could be found as triggering. Just be warned, I don't want any of you to get hurt and it is not for the faint of heart. There will be NO graphic descriptions of the abuse, but implications will be made. I try to focus on emotions in this story, because that's what it's all about in the end. If you have any questions, remarks or you just want to talk, do not hesitate to send me a private message.

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RIDDHIMA'S POV

"Riddhima? Riddhima, wake up. Riddhima? Can you hear me?"

A soft woman's voice breaks through my sleeping daze and I force myself to open my eyes. I have to blink a few times to clear my vision.

A ceiling, too close above me. The space I am in is altogether too small. I panic and get up, only to find I am constrained. I can't move my hips.

Panic levels rising, I gasp in a breath that is almost too large for my lungs. My body doesn't give me time to breathe out as I gasp for air again. My hands fly to my neck, my eyes are widening.

Where the hell am I? Why can't I move?

"Riddhima? Look at me. Look at me, Riddhima," the woman's voice beside me keeps pleading. I realize she's been speaking to me ever since I woke up and started panicking.

I'm hyperventilating just a tad too much to be really able to listen to her, though.

She doesn't give up. Renee never gives up on me. She sits beside me, her big brown eyes full of trust and reassurance, I see when I finally meet her gaze.

"Count with me," Renee says softly. "Here we go. One: you're okay. Two: you're on a plane. You're buckled in, that's why you can't move. Three: You are on your way to Washington. Four: Your feet are firmly on the ground. Five: you are breathing regularly. Six: your heart rate is slowing down. Seven:…"

As I look unblinking at Renee and silently count with her, my eyes fill up with tears. I'll miss her. I'll miss her so much. The counting method was her idea to help me ground when I'm upset. Start with knowing where you are, then counting your way up to breathing normally and being able to face the world again. And it works, right now it works again. My breathing slows, I get myself in check once more.

She is the only therapist that ever got through to me. And now she is leaving me, too.

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Do you know that feeling when you are absolutely certain that the shit has hit the fan and you're in for it and all hell will break loose and then nothing, just nothing happens? It's like I am in the eye of the storm now, and the anticipation is eating me.

But, metaphors aside, I am so confused that I don't even know how to put what has happened.

I was in the kitchen, minding my own business and trying to finally, finally eat something real, when I heard this voice behind me, asking who I was and why I was wearing his sweater. Well, I didn't hear him come in or approach me in any way so yeah, he scared the shit out of me.

When I turned to face him and to see how angry he was, I dropped the glass with the fluid food I was about to drink in my shock. Of course the muck got flying everywhere and glass splinters pivoted off the floor loudly, but all I could do was look at this guy that was standing in the doorway.

He must be Vansh.

Impossible, black hair, dark brows, fierce eyes and a strong jaw-line, and although I've sworn myself to never ever find a male attractive in whatever way, he was the most handsome man I've ever seen. The picture surely didn't do him any justice.

But I'd never want him. I couldn't.

No, scratch that.

Like he would ever want me. Ha. Ha. Funny, Riddhima.

But, all tackiness aside, he was pissed, and I was up in the middle of the night, and I had just dropped a glass to pieces on the floor, and I was wearing his sweater.

Shit, shit, shit.

I'd fucked up. Again.

I looked down at the floor, then back at him, and stuck my hands out in an apologizing gesture. Not that it would help, but he should know I never meant to do this. Of course I didn't. I would find a way to pay for the glass. And I would clean the kitchen, of course. Hell, I'd clean the entire house if that's what it took.

He needed to get his sweater back. I tried to pull it off as quickly as I could with my shaking hands, all the while haunted by memories of the times I had to undress in front of Stefan or Rajeev. Bile filled my throat at the association. My body was switching to red-alert mode swiftly and my heart rate was escalating. Although a small voice in the back of my mind called out frantically that I didn't need to be scared in this house, that this Vansh, like the rest of his family, would probably not hurt me, I tensed up like I did every time I sensed danger.

I am Pavlov's dog personified.

I folded his sweater and put it on the breakfast bar. There was no way in hell I was going to approach him. If he wanted anything, he should come and get it. But for good measure, and to make myself clear, I pushed the sweater forward in his direction.

He didn't react. He didn't even move. He just stood there, looking at me with those intense, unreadable eyes. My heart started pounding a mile a minute and cold shivers of fear traced down my spine as I knelt down, making myself vulnerable. But I needed to start cleaning up the glass, so he'd know I felt bad about this. I sank to my knees right smack in the middle of the shatters and felt them crunch underneath my knees as I started to collect them from around me.

Quick, light footsteps hurried towards me and I cringed violently, my breathing halting. Before I could even process what had happened, I felt two hands on my shoulders. I wrapped my arms around my head to protect myself as best as I could and bent forward, making myself as small as possible to protect my vulnerable parts. My rational mind finally shut up, thoroughly confused and disappointed that she was apparently wrong about the safety in this house. My evil mind just rubbed some salt in the newly torn-open wounds. See?

The hands didn't let go. Fuck, this was it. Please, let it be over soon, please, please please pleasepleaseplease…....

I'm Riddhima D’Souza. I'm seventeen years old and I've survived a living hell. Twice. The price I had to pay for that? The first time, I lost my willingness to speak. The second time, I almost lost my ability to.

To Be Continued.....