The transition from the velvet darkness of the living room to the harsh, clinical glare of the hallway was a violent assault on my senses.
He didn't use his hands to help me up.
His fingers tangled deep into the roots of my hair, his knuckles grazing my scalp as he yanked. I let out a jagged scream, my body flailing as he dragged me across the cold marble.
Suddenly, I wasn't on marble. I was on the floor of a rotting shack. The smell of mold and salt air rushed back. I wasn't in a mansion; I was back in the middle of nowhere, and a man's hand was tangled in my hair just like this.
"Please, Jason!" I heard myself cry in the back of my mind, a memory from a life I'd forgotten.
"Please!" I choked out, my fingers clawing at his iron-clad wrist. "Dante, stop! You're hurting me!"
"Good," he clipped, his voice devoid of the playful cat-and-mouse charm from minutes ago.
"Maybe if your body is in enough pain, your mind will finally stop playing these pathetic games of hide-and-seek."
