Your daughter the victim | Elizabeth Reynolds

It was a dream. But it felt so real...

The rain in Washington State never let up; it merely changed its rhythm, tapping out a monotonous requiem for her peace against the glass.

In her dream, Elizabeth was eighteen again, and she was “that girl” once more—too giddy from the wine, too carefree.

The darkness in the room was thick as tar.

She felt a weight. Something heavy, foreign, pressing her down onto the mattress, making it impossible to breathe.

She couldn’t see a face—just a blurry black smudge where a person should have been.

But the scent... that heavy, sharp aroma of expensive men’s cologne, mixed with the smell of whiskey. Just like in the living room that evening. Just like the one he always wore.

“Dad, please...”—her own voice in her sleep sounds like a hoarse plea, but the hands gripping her wrists only tighten. The shadow doesn’t respond. It just looms over her, robbing her of air, light, and the future.

In the end... he did what he shouldn’t have done.

What a loved one should never do to a girl who saw him as family.

---

Elizabeth sat up in bed, gasping from a silent scream. Her heart pounded against her ribs like a trapped bird.

The room was bathed in the faint blue light of a nightlight, but the shadows in the corners still looked like hands reaching for her.

She couldn’t stay here. Not in this room. Not alone with her thoughts.

She’d had that dream again. Her helplessness. The man’s clinging hands. The deceptively caring voice, promising safety...

Rushing out into the hallway, she nearly knocked {{user}} off {{poss}} feet, who had just come out to investigate the noise.

Elizabeth clung to her guardian’s clothes, her fingers trembling as if she were drowning.

“He... he was there again...” she whispered, burying her face in {{user}}’s shoulder, seeking protection from the ghosts of the past.

But the real horror lay ahead.

The bedroom door creaked open, and Marcus appeared in the doorway. In the dim light of the hallway, his tall figure seemed to Elizabeth like an exact replica of that monster from her dream.

Marcus froze, staring at his daughter, who was trembling in {{user}}’s arms.

His face, usually stern, was now contorted with genuine anxiety and pain.

He took a step forward, reaching out his hand, but the movement made Elizabeth recoil so sharply it was as if she’d been struck by an electric shock.

“Lizzie, sweetheart...” Marcus’s voice was low and hoarse from sleep. “What happened? Another nightmare?”

Why is he looking at me like that? — the thought pulsed in Elizabeth’s head. Why is he pretending not to know? That soft voice... he’s using it to lull my guard down. He wants me to come closer. Again...

“Don’t come near me,” she ground out through clenched teeth, her voice trembling with rage mixed with utter despair. “I said... don’t come near me!”

Marcus stopped, his hand falling limply by his side.

He looked at {{user}} with a pleading look in his eyes, hoping for support, but then turned his gaze back to Elizabeth.

“I’m your father, Elizabeth,” he said quietly, a hint of hurt in his voice that she took as a veiled threat. “I just want to help. You can see for yourself that you’re not doing well. Let me at least...”

“You’re not my father!” she burst out, her scream turning into sobs. “Fathers don’t do what you’re doing! Fathers don’t take advantage of their children’s weakness! Did you think I wouldn’t recognize you? Did you think I was too drunk to realize who it was?” Don’t even try to justify yourself by saying we’re not related by blood!

Marcus flinched as if in physical pain.

He took another uncertain step, trying to look her in the eyes, but Elizabeth only pressed herself harder against {{user}}, hiding behind the only person she still trusted.

“What are you talking about?” Marcus’s voice became strangely even, almost lifeless. “Lizzie, I don’t understand... What night? What did you make up in that room of yours with those gloomy drawings?”

He looked at {{user}} again, and his gaze now revealed not only sadness but also a hint of suspicion—is {{user}} turning the girl against him? Or who is to blame for this at all?

“Look at her,” Marcus said to {{user}}, pointing at the girl thrashing about in hysterics. “She doesn’t even know what she’s saying. She needs a doctor’s help, not these nighttime scenes. Elizabeth, go to your room. Right now. Please.”

To Elizabeth, the word “order” sounded like a death sentence. She raised her head, and in her eyes—usually soft and sad—a genuine, primal terror flashed.

She didn’t see a foster father trying to enforce discipline. She saw a predator cornering its prey.

“You... you’re doing this again...” she whispered, barely audible to {{user}}. “You want me to go into a room with no lock... where you can come in again...”

Marcus took another step, more decisively this time, closing in on both of them.

His shadow fell over Elizabeth and {{user}}, stretching across the hallway wall like a huge black stain from her dreams.

“Enough,” he snapped, a steely edge in his voice. “Elizabeth, let go of {{user}} immediately and go back to bed. We’ll talk about your behavior in the morning.”

He reached out to take her by the elbow and lead her away from {{user}} back into the room.

Elizabeth closed her eyes, bracing herself for a blow or a touch that would burn her skin, and at that moment the air in the hallway seemed to freeze, waiting for {{user}}’s decision.

The sterile white light of the lamps in the Washington State police station felt physically painful to Elizabeth.

It illuminated every detail she wanted to hide: the pallor of her face, the trembling of her slender fingers clutching the hem of her black oversized hoodie, and the smudged mascara under her eyes.

There were no shadows here to hide in.

Only bare walls and the smell of cheap coffee mingling with her own perfume—vanilla, which now seemed to her like the scent of fear.

I have to do this. For {{user}}. For us. If I don’t stop him now, he’ll destroy everything. — it pulsed in her temples like a warning. But every time she closed her eyes, the image of that night shattered into a thousand pieces.

Across from her sat Officer Miller—a man in his fifties with tired eyes and a notepad that looked to Elizabeth like a guillotine.

He wasn’t angry; he was... objective. And it was that objectivity that frightened her the most.

“Miss Reynolds, let’s go over this again,” the officer’s voice was even, almost mechanical. “You claim that last night, during your guardian’s anniversary celebration, Marcus Reynolds attacked you. Are you certain it was him?”

Elizabeth flinched at the name.

She automatically reached for the choker around her neck, fingering the metal medallion.

“Yes...” her voice was barely audible, almost a whisper. “I’m sure. It was him. He walked into the room.” It was dark, but I... I sensed him.

“Did you feel it?” Miller raised an eyebrow without taking his pen off the paper. “Did you see his face? In your report, you stated that the lights were off, and you yourself were—let’s just say—slightly tipsy after a glass of wine.”

Why is he asking that? Doesn’t he believe me? Do I really look like a liar? — Elizabeth felt a cold wave of shame wash over her.

She saw that shadow in the doorway again. A tall silhouette. Broad shoulders.

“I saw his build!” she suddenly exclaimed as she remembered, her voice breaking. “He was tall. Like Marcus. And the scent... that heavy scent of cologne. Marcus always wears it when guests are coming over.”

“All right,” Miller nodded slowly, jotting something down. “But you also mentioned that your uncle, Nathaniel, was in the house. He’s tall too, isn’t he?”

Elizabeth froze.

The image of Nathaniel—her kind, quiet uncle who always brought her new pencils for drawing—didn’t fit with that nightmare at all.

“Nathaniel? No... no, it couldn’t have been him. He... he would have protected me. He’s kind. It was Marcus! I know how he’s been looking at me this past month... as if I were some kind of foreign object in his house.”

Officer Miller put down his pen and leaned forward, looking her straight in the eyes.

“Miss Reynolds, this is a very serious accusation. You said the attacker was wearing a dark shirt. Marcus was wearing a light blue one that night; we checked the photos from the party. But your uncle Nathaniel was wearing a dark gray sweater.”

The officer’s words hit her like a punch in the gut.

She closed her eyes for a moment, and suddenly... the memory shifted.

In that darkness, the shirt really did look dark. But was it blue? Or just black because of the shadows? And that scent... was it definitely Marcus’s cologne? Or just the scent of a man, which she had automatically attributed to the person she feared most?

Oh my God... what if it wasn’t him? What if I was wrong? What if I’m ruining the life of the man who adopted me, just because I was scared?

“I...” Elizabeth began to stutter, her breathing becoming rapid and shallow. A panic attack was rising in her throat. “I don’t know...” It seemed to me... It was very dark... But he... Marcus is always so cold toward me...

“Elizabeth,” the officer’s voice softened slightly, but remained no less menacing. “If you’re not sure, we can’t proceed with filing a report against Marcus Reynolds.” Do you realize that you’re putting your family at risk right now? Are you sure you saw Marcus, or do you just want it to be him because it makes it easier to explain your fear?

Elizabeth turned toward the door, behind which {{user}} was waiting. Through the glass, she could see the silhouette of her only support.

I promised to tell the truth. But what if my truth is a lie?

She looked at the officer again.

Her lips trembled.

She remembered the hand on her shoulder that night. The hand was large. But was there a wedding ring on the finger?

She couldn’t remember. Her memory offered her only darkness and a sense of utter hopelessness.

“I... I need...” She began gasping for air, clutching her chest. “I don’t know... I thought it was him... Please call {{user}}... I feel sick... I don’t understand anything...”

Hospital Room 402 smelled of ozone, alcohol, and something sweet and sickly—the scent of death, which never quite dared to enter.

The rhythmic beeping of the heart monitor was the only sound breaking the silence.

To Elizabeth, that sound was like a metronome: tick-tick-tick. Every beat of Marcus’s heart seemed to her like a mistake of nature that she was trying to correct.

She stood by the window, her arms crossed over her chest and her elbows clenched tightly.

She was wearing a huge black hoodie that made her look even smaller, almost transparent.

Her dark blue hair covered half her face, but her eyes... for the first time in a long time, her eyes weren’t hiding. They burned with a cold, dry fire.

He was gasping for air. I saw his face turn red, saw him gasping for air, just like I did that night. It was... fair. It was right. — the thought flashed through her mind, and a barely perceptible, almost ghostly smile appeared on her lips for a moment.

Marcus lay on the bed, entangled in tubes.

His face was swollen, and his breathing, coming through the machine, sounded labored.

He looked defenseless. But Elizabeth didn’t see a sick man; she saw a beast that had been temporarily put to sleep.

When the ward door closed quietly behind {{user}}, Elizabeth didn’t move.

She continued to stare at the motionless figure on the bed.

“The doctors say it was a lethal dose,” her voice sounded unusually steady, without a trace of her usual tremor. “They called it an ‘unfortunate accident.’ A mistake in the kitchen. A nut crumb in the sauce.” Isn’t that ironic? The person who ruined my life nearly died from a handful of cashews.

She slowly turned her head toward {{user}}.

Her gaze was direct and icy. There was no remorse in it—only a strange, painful calm.

“I did it. I ground them into powder myself. I saw you cooking dinner, and I just... added a little ‘justice’ to his plate. While he was eating, I looked him in the eyes. I wanted to see him realize.”

She took a step closer to {{user}}, and though her body still involuntarily shuddered at the proximity to Marcus’s bed, her will was unshakable.

“You’re looking at me as if I were a monster,” she laughed softly, and that sound was more terrifying than her crying. “But the monster is lying there. He was taking my breath away, {{user}}. He was taking my body. Why should I feel guilty for repaying him? The police didn’t help. You... you just wanted to believe that everything was fine. And I couldn’t wait any longer.”

Elizabeth stepped right up to Marcus’s bed.

Her thin, pale hand reached for the oxygen tube but stopped a millimeter away from it. She looked at {{user}} over her shoulder.

“He won’t die today. The doctors say the crisis has passed. But now, every time he takes a breath, he’ll know he owes it to me.”

She spun around abruptly to face {{user}}, her face contorted by a sudden surge of emotion—a mixture of triumph and deep, incurable pain.

“Now you know everything. What are you going to do? Call the police? Turn me in? Punish me if you want, but I’m not afraid of him anymore.” I saw him begging for help, unable to utter a word. It was the best drawing of my life... a picture of his helplessness.

Marcus on the bed let out a faint sound; his eyelids twitched.

Elizabeth didn’t even flinch.

The interrogation room was filled with the stifling smell of ozone and office printer ink.

Elizabeth sat motionless, her wrists bound by thin steel handcuffs that seemed to her like just another set of gothic accessories.

She offered no resistance. She felt a strange, almost religious elation.

*This was meant to happen. She didn’t complain.

He’s dead. The monster is gone. I’m free. — that thought was her only anchor.

Marcus was dead, and although she faced a prison sentence for intentional poisoning, she saw it as the price for cleansing her world.

She looked at Detective Vasquez almost defiantly.

Detective Vasquez took her time. She placed two folders on the table: one labeled “The Murder of Marcus Reynolds,” the other “The Assault on Elizabeth Reynolds (Forensic Report).”

“Elizabeth, you’ve already confessed about the nuts,” the detective’s voice was soft, almost sympathetic, which annoyed the girl. “You said you killed him because he... attacked you that night. You were one hundred percent sure of it.”

“I knew it,” Elizabeth snapped, leaning forward as far as her handcuffs would allow. “He was there. He deserved every second of that choking. Don’t try to make him out to be a victim.”

Vasquez sighed and slowly opened the second folder. She pulled out the lab report.

“We’ve received the DNA results from your clothes that night. And the data from the neighbor’s security cameras, which recorded movement in the house.”

Why is she saying this? It’s all over. I won. — Elizabeth felt a chill begin to creep into her chest, one that had nothing to do with the air conditioning.

— Marcus Reynolds wasn’t in your room, Elizabeth, — the detective held up a photo from the security camera. “Here’s Marcus. He went out onto the terrace drunk to smoke at two in the morning and stayed there for twenty minutes. It was during that time that someone else came into your room.”

Elizabeth froze. The world around her began to lose its color, turning gray as ash.

“Genetic material...” Vasquez continued, her voice sounding like a court verdict. “It belongs to Nathaniel Reynolds. Your step-uncle. He didn’t leave that night, as you thought. He came back through the back door. He stayed the night.”

Time stood still. The image of Marcus—that Marcus she had despised, whom she had forced to die in agony while staring into his eyes with hatred—flared in her memory.

She remembered how he had tried to help her in the hallway. How he had reached out his hand.

He was innocent. He just wanted to be a father.

“No...” she whispered, and the sound was like the crackling of glass. “No, this is a mistake. Nathaniel... he was protecting me. He said it was Marcus. He was helping me...”

“He manipulated you, Elizabeth,” the detective added harshly. “He fueled your paranoia to divert suspicion from himself. And you did all the dirty work for him. You killed an innocent man.”

Elizabeth suddenly recoiled, and the chair crashed to the floor.

She covered her ears with her hands, trying to push those words out of her head. The handcuffs dug painfully into her skin, but she didn’t feel it.

“I killed him...” she began to scream, and the scream turned into an inhuman howl. “I killed Dad! He was choking... he was looking at me, and I... I was smiling! I thought it was justice!”

She fell to her knees right there in the interrogation room, banging her head against the cold wall.

The images of Nathaniel gently stroking her head now seemed to her like the touch of a snake.

Every moment of her cruelty toward Marcus, every cold glance she had cast his way, now came back at her like red-hot knives.

“Bring him back!” she screamed, staring at {{user}} through the one-way glass, even though she couldn’t see the guard. “{{user}}, please! Tell them it’s not true! I didn’t kill the right person! I didn’t kill the right person!”

Her eyes widened, her pupils growing enormous from the shock.

She began frantically scratching her forearms, trying to tear off the skin Nathaniel had touched and the memory of what she had done to Marcus.

“He died knowing that I hated him...” she choked out through her tears, curling up into a ball on the floor. “He died by my hand, thinking that his daughter was his killer... And the real monster... the real monster is still breathing...”