The Bloody Basement

The first time I saw Yale Shawn, my mother was pinning me down in the grimy corner of a greasy diner. She clenched a crumpled IOU note in her hand, spitting on my face as she told me I was responsible for repaying the five hundred thousand debt. The gambler across the street rubbed his hands, his gaze glued to me like a snake flicking its tongue. My mother shoved me toward that man, telling me to endure just one night—that money could solve everything. I stared at the streetlamp outside the restaurant window, thinking about jumping. At seventeen, she had already gambled away every path I had—at six, I burned my hands cooking instant noodles alone; at twelve, she locked me inside, starving me for three days, and now, she was going to sell me. Just as I reached for the window latch, the door swung open. Yale Shawn walked in, his black coat dusted with snow, followed by two bodyguards in black suits, instantly crushing the foul air in the restaurant. He didn't look at my mother, nor at the gambler—only his eyes locked on me. His voice was as cold as ice: "Five hundred thousand. I'll settle it for her." My mother's eyes gleamed; she hurriedly grabbed me, thanking him, saying that from now on I belonged to the Shawn family and would obey. Yale crouched down, his fingertips brushing my frostbitten chin: "Good. From now on, you will stay only by my side." At that time, I believed he was my savior. Only later did I realize he was the devil dragging me deeper into hell. Yale Shawn's villa rested halfway up the mountain; it was called the Mist House. The room was spacious, with floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking snow-laden woods and a wardrobe filled with beautiful dresses, yet the door was locked tight and the windows barred with security grilles. The first time I 'disobeyed' was because I wanted to call my Grandmother, who lived far away in the countryside. Before I could even dial, Yale Shawn gripped my wrist from behind. He was strong; I heard my bones crack, and the pain brought tears streaming down my face. "Who told you to touch the phone?" He lowered his head, his breath falling on my neck, heavy with menace. I bit my lip and said I missed Grandmother, but he smiled—a dark, cruel smile: "Nancy Scott, now you have only me." That night, he locked me in the closet. There was no light inside, only the smell of camphor balls on the clothes. I curled up in the corner, listening to my own heartbeat until dawn. When he brought me breakfast, there wasn't a trace of remorse in his eyes. He handed me the warm milk and said, "Next time you dare think about someone else, it won't be as simple as locking you up for one night." I obediently nodded and drank the milk. In this house, obedience was my only way to survive. Over time, I learned to read Yale Shawn's temper. When he was pleased, he would take me to buy jewelry, have the kitchen prepare my favorite Sweet and Sour Fish, hold me on the balcony watching the snow, and say my eyes were like a clear spring he once saw. Once, I mentioned in passing that my grandmother used to make osmanthus cake for me, sweet and delicate. A few days later, the scent of osmanthus drifted from the kitchen's steamer. Yale Shawn stood at the restaurant doorway, watching me stare at the bamboo steamer. A faint smile tugged at his lips. "Try it, see if it suits your taste." I bit into it, sweetness spreading across my tongue, but my eyes grew warm—though the flavor was far from my Grandmother's, in this cold, unfeeling house, it was a rare warmth. Seeing my silence, he mistook it for dislike, his expression darkening. "Not good?" I quickly shook my head and shoved the remaining half into my mouth. "It's good, thank you." He didn't ask any more questions; he just sat across from me, watching me finish an entire piece of osmanthus cake, his eyes concealing emotions I couldn't understand. But when he's displeased, he pushes me down the stairs. That time, it was because I caught the delivery guy's eyes twice while I was in the garden. He said nothing; after the delivery guy left, he immediately reached out and shoved me down the stairs from the second floor. I tumbled to the first floor, hitting the back of my head on the steps, and blood instantly poured out. He came down, knelt beside me, wiped the blood from my face with a handkerchief, and said calmly, "What's mine, no one else is allowed to look at." The pain was so fierce I couldn't speak; I could only watch him. He added, "But don't worry, I'll make sure the doctor treats you." Later, the doctor gave me seven stitches, saying that if the wound had been any farther off, it would have pierced my brainstem. Yale Shawn sat by the bedside, peeling an apple for me. The peel came off thin and continuous. He said, "Nancy Scott, I'm just scared of losing you." I bit into the apple without saying a word.