It had been so long since I felt soft cotton sheets against my skin. I nuzzled my head in the pillows and inhaled the comforting scent of lavender. I stretched my arms under the pillows, embracing the coolness. Layered on top of the heavenly lavender was the familiar scent of bacon and freshly brewed coffee.
I sighed at the relieving thought, “Mom’s making breakfast?”
How long has it been? With my eyes still closed and my face resting in the mountain of pillows, I thought back to my last breakfast with my family. Her homemade butter biscuits, shrimp and grits and maple bacon… always served with freshly ground coffee and orange juice. My stomach grumbled at the thought. I reached over my head and knocked on the wall.
It felt good to be home…
Knock. Knock. Knock.
No reply.
I knocked again.
Knock. Knock. Knock.
“No one is going to answer.” A quiet voice answered. It felt so distant. A sudden, hollow ache opened up in my chest, a grief so sharp it stole my breath.
“Ray?” I knocked again, but more frantic.
“Ray, where are you? Ray!” I screamed, bolting upright in the bed. My chest heaved as my eyes flew open, finally capturing the unfamiliar, opulent room. “Where am I?”
“You’ll be alright,” the same flat, bored voice said from the corner of the room, startling me. I turned to find the handmaiden from before, Isabelle, sitting in a rocking chair by the window. She didn't look up from the glossy celebrity gossip magazine splayed across her lap. “The baby is safe,” she stated, as if casually reading a grocery list. She wrinkled her nose in my direction, a flicker of pure disdain, before turning a page with a loud, aggravated sigh. “Next time, mind your manners. There has been too much stress for that baby.”
I slid back, the wood of the headboard pressing into my spine as I stared at Isabelle. My mind was a tangled mess, trying to separate the dream from the nightmare. The scent of bacon and coffee still hung faintly in the air, a cruel ghost of the breakfast I’d imagined my mother making. My knuckles still ached from knocking for Ray on a wall that wasn't his.
It all came rushing back in a chaotic flood: Richard’s betrayal at the cabin. Thea’s face, her hand connecting with my cheek. The sting of the needle. Then, the swirling darkness that had pulled me under, only to spit me out into a dream of a different life. The past seemed just as foreign as the bed I laid in.
My eyes finally focused, taking in the unfamiliar, sterile room. This wasn't a dream. This was real. I tried to shift my legs, to pull them in closer, but something heavy and cold stopped me. I slowly lifted the blanket and looked down.
Thick, metal cuffs were locked around each of my ankles, the links of a chain disappearing into the shadows beneath the bed frame.
“Careful,” Isabelle said, her voice flat, not looking up from her magazine.
My breath caught. My gaze darted from her placid face to the iron on my achy skin.
“I’m– I’m chained to the bed,” I stated, my voice a hollow whisper drenched in disbelief.
She finally looked at me, a flicker of something… pleasant in her eyes. “Of course.”
My eyes scanned the room. Beige walls. A standard-issue dresser that looked like it came from a hotel catalog. A private bathroom door, slightly ajar. Everything was clean, expensive, and utterly devoid of personality. The window, however, the perfect frame of the picturesque ocean waves crashing onto the beach shore. I exhaled as I shifted my gaze back on Isabelle in her rocking chair. She was just... there. Pale and unremarkable, blending in with the beige walls.
“Where am I, and why am I chained to the bed?”
“This is your very own room. The chains go when you prove to me that you have some self-control.”
Self-control?
The condescension was so thick I could have choked on it.
“How long have I been out?”
“Since supper.” She then licked her index finger before turning the page. As she skimmed through, she used her last three fingers as a guide with her index tucked under her thumb. She and Thea resembled the same purposeful alignment in the chin, shoulders, and back. It was a stiffness that went beyond good posture; it was a physical manifestation of their own self-importance. Which intrigued me. Who was this woman, and what gave her the right to act superior? From where I was sitting, she was just another captive, one tasked with serving me.
“It’s Isabelle, right?” She then shifted her eyes to me, folded the corner of the page of the magazine, and slapped the flimsy book shut. “Yes,” she said, practically speaking through her teeth. A faint downturn at the edges of her mouth told me she wanted to be anywhere else. As she rocked, she shifted slightly under her, a subtle adjustment away from me. There was a distance; I had somehow made it onto her bad side. Unfortunately for her, I couldn’t care.
I need answers.
I was still trying to figure out how to play this game. Each person was a different piece on the board. Isabelle, Thea, Mekhi... But Isabelle... She was just like me. A prisoner, no matter how starched her uniform was. Caution was necessary, yes. But her coldness, that barely concealed resentment... being meek wouldn't win her over. I knew her type. The only way through was to be direct.
I decided to lay my cards on the table. Yes, this was a gamble, but a necessary one. “My name is Valencia,” I began, keeping my voice even. "I'm not your enemy. I'm a prisoner, just as I suspect you are."
I let my words hang in the air as I tried forcing myself to meet Isabelle’s cold gaze. Her expression remained perfectly, unnervingly still.
"I have a family I need to get back to," I pressed on. "Whatever they have on you, whatever they're promising... freedom is better. We can help each other get out of here. Please, just–”
Isabelle’s blank expression cracked. A smile emerged to the surface. “You must think you’re so smart, huh? While the rest of the world gets caught up in a whirlwind of inevitable change, you somehow slip through the cracks.”
“Excuse me?”
“What I’m saying is, your luck just ran out,” she said, her voice dripping with a false sweetness. “You’ve finally caught up with the rest of us.” She let out a soft chuckle, then rocked back as she reopened her magazine. Shaking her head with condescending disbelief, she continued, “It must have been so convenient, getting pregnant.” She wouldn’t look up from her magazine, her rocking a slow, creaking rhythm. “A little insurance policy,” she murmured, turning a page with a sharp flick of her wrist. “A way to rub it in all our faces.”
She finally paused, her eyes still fixed on the glossy page. Her voice dropped, cold and final. “But that little miracle in your belly won't save you. We'll see how lucky you feel then.”
Knock. Knock.
A sharp knock on the bedroom door cut through the tense silence. A moment later, the older gentleman I’d vaguely registered from the night before pushed a small metal cart into the room. Its weight dragged on the wooden floor and it rolled, ringing the crystal and metal dishes.
“Madam requested breakfast in bed for Abigail,” he said, his voice soft and respectful. He moved with a quiet, practiced efficiency, arranging a tray on my lap and pointing to a small crystal cup.
“Thank you, Percy,” Isabelle said.
I watched, stunned, as a genuine, warm smile transformed her face. It was the first real emotion I’d seen from her… and it was clear, this was a courtesy she would not extend to me. The warmth vanished the second he turned to leave.
He left the door wide open, and I could hear the sounds of a house waking up. Deep voices conversing. Heavy footsteps moving about.
“Eat, Abby,” Isabelle said, her eyes still on her magazine. “I’m sure you’re starving.”
Abby.
The sound of her voice, so recently warm for Percy, was now flat and cold again. The hypocrisy of it, the deliberate cruelty, ignited a spark in my chest. I watched her idly flip through her magazine, the picture of detached superiority. She wanted an issue? Fine. Playing the meek victim wasn't going to get me anywhere with her.
It was time to remind her who I was.
“I didn’t slip through the cracks,” I said, my voice steady. I picked up the heavy metal spoon and deliberately scooped a piece of cantaloupe from the plate. “I remember when my brother joined the military. We were Navy brats, so it wasn’t a shock when he decided to go.” I popped the fruit into my mouth. The juice was a burst of sweet, cold flavor. “Oh wow, that’s delicious,” I noted, looking directly at Isabelle. “Anyway,” I continued, “he was always great with numbers, patterns… a genius in his own right. They used him accordingly: he became a CWT– Cyber Warfare Technician.”
I set the spoon down and picked up a piece of toast, examining the avocado spread. The bread was buttery and flaky. The spread, bright, from what tastes like lime, and covered with chopped onions, garlic, and sesame seeds. I took a large, slow bite, chewing thoughtfully before I spoke again. “I showed him the data. Broke down my concerns for his life… for our parents… even for myself.”
I paused, taking a long sip of water to wash down the toast. Isabelle’s expression was still a mask of bored indifference, but her rocking had stopped.
“I warned anyone who would listen about the recruitment, the deployment,” I said, my voice hardening slightly. “No one listened. Then came the vaccines… and to no one's surprise, I became the 'anti-vaxxer.' Never mind that I didn’t say not to get it… well, at that time. I just had questions. I didn’t know their entire plan, but I said population control was next on the agenda, because they said it was. When the world heard my ‘theory’, I was mocked. Ostracized.”
I leaned forward slightly. “My brother, with all his brilliance, was not the only one who didn’t see what was so clearly mapped out in front of him. But despite the humiliation, I decided to continue making my own decisions concerning my life. So, no,” I said, looking from the toast back to her cold eyes, “I didn’t slip through any cracks. I decided not to believe that the distractions and conveniences of this world would protect me from someone else's agenda.”
I took another deliberate bite of toast. The flakes crumbled out of my full mouth as I illuminated her probable regret, “I’m assuming you received the vaccine, like the majority of the world. Obeying your Madam’s orders, huh?” I let a small, humorless chuckle escape.
Isabelle was right, I was starving.
I placed the toast back on the plate and met her gaze, my voice dropping, low and final. “Listen, Isabelle. When I leave here, it won’t be by luck. But because I see what you refuse to face.”
Isabelle placed the magazine in her lap and then leaned back in the rocking chair. Calmly folding her hands, she refocused all of her tension on her teeth as she grinded them back and forth. The temples of her head pulsed with vexation. Was this the right time to piss off your “caretaker”? Probably not, but I had dined sufficiently.
“Abigail…”
“My name is Valencia.” I snapped.
Isabelle’s jaw tightened, a flicker of raw anger breaking through her composed mask before she smoothed it away. She took a slow, deliberate breath. When she spoke again, her voice was dangerously calm. “This is your home now. Fall in line because you aren’t going anywhere, anytime soon. Now, you heard Percy. Don’t forget about your vitamins.” I looked at the tiny cup, with two medium brown pills.
“Take them or… don’t. Either way, I’ll be recording everything on your behavioral report.”
Behavioral report?
The words were absurd, something out of a dystopian novel I’d once read. They were treating me like a lab rat, a subject to be monitored and documented.
“Are these prenatals?” I asked, watching the paradigm shift.
She rose from the rocking chair and headed for the door. Grabbing the knob, she pulled the door behind her, but before she closed it, she leaned back in.
“Just so we’re clear,” she said, her voice dropping to a venomous whisper. “Your name is Abigail. You belong to Madam Thea, and as long as you are under this roof, you answer to me. Your only job is to be a good girl and keep that... investment... healthy. Everything you were, everything you stood for– it was all bought and paid for. You own nothing. Not your name, not your body, and certainly not the baby you carry. The sooner you accept that, the easier this will be.”
Her words echoed, a paralyzing venom. But then a subtle grin crossed her face, a flicker of triumph, and something primal, something fiercely protective, snapped inside me. The words weren't a thought; they were a vow, ripped from my very core. “You touch my child,” I whispered, my voice low, “and I will take your life.”
Isabelle smiled, then gently closed the door behind her.
Click.
The sharp click of the lock was a final, mocking punctuation.
A raw scream of pure rage tore from my throat. I flipped the tray from my lap, sending food and metal crashing against the wall. I thrashed against the bed, the chains digging into my ankles, rubbing my flesh raw until it burned. But the frustration quickly gave way to a wave of soul-crushing fear, and I broke, sobbing, my hands clawing protectively at my womb as Richard’s treacherous face swam in my mind.
How am I going to get out of here?
Welcome back to Act II… and thank you for reading Chapter VI of Sterilized!
In this chapter, we followed Vincy from the immediate chaos of her capture into a new, unsettling space. She has no idea why she’s there or who is truly responsible, and we're witnessing her meet new people who hold all the control and aren't afraid to enforce it. My goal for Chapter VI was to show how this story is far more than just a sequence of events, but an evolution of the decisions that led to this moment.
For me, any great mystery is about the “why” as much as it’s about “what happened.” How a storyteller decides to unravel that motive is where the art of storytelling takes place. That's what I want to get you excited for: the unraveling.
Chapter V, "The Catalyst," was vital in setting the foundation for Vincy's journey. We'll have more flashbacks as we go, and I’m genuinely interested to know: how are you feeling about this method of storytelling?
This is a journey for both of us. I'd be honored and appreciative of your thoughts and honest review in the comments below. (But please keep in mind, I'm an artist and I'm sensitive about my shh—! Haha).
If you're enjoying the story, please consider sharing it with a fellow thriller-lover. Your support means the world! The next installment, Chapter VII, drops next Tuesday.
For new readers, or to revisit previous installments, you can click here to access the Start Here / Chapter Guide page.
Again, thank you for reading, and see you next Tuesday. — Isis Daniel
Oh my goodness! This is sooooi good! I’m just excited that we get to be a part of this journey. 🔥🔥🔥🔥🔥. Is anyone else enjoying it like me! I read all the time, so when I say this is good please know that not all authors are able to keep my attention. I have questions, so it has to be well written. This is!!! ❤️❤️