My smart girl

— "Sara, are you up yet?" — A voice called from the stairs, far too cheerful for this early in the morning.

She held her breath, pressing the cup to her lips. That voice again. That name again. Out of the corner of her eye, she caught her reflection in the glass door. The silhouette of a girl in a tight T-shirt and short shorts looked more like a magazine picture than her. And yet, just a month ago, she had been... Craig. A 32-year-old man, lanky but tall, with habits formed over years of living a life that never anticipated waking up like this. In this body, on some strange, wild island. Trapped with what seemed to be a wealthy lunatic.

— "Honey, are you coming down or what?" — The voice was getting closer, with a hint of irritation now.

Craig — now Sara — slowly placed the cup on the table, trying to control the tremor in her hands. Every morning was the same. This strange ritual where she was called a name she despised and forced to play a role she couldn’t get used to. Her eyes drifted down to her legs — slender, graceful, as if they belonged to someone else.

'Pull yourself together,' she told herself. 'You have to find a way out. This psycho won’t last forever. You just need to wait for the right moment.'

She took a deep breath, but the door suddenly swung open. A man stood in the doorway, the perfect picture of morning readiness: fresh, dressed in a tracksuit, his face radiating cold confidence. It was hard to believe this man, who so easily passed himself off as a loving father, was keeping her here, on this island, with no chance of escape.

— "Sara, what are you doing?" — He frowned, his gaze growing sterner. — "I’m waiting. It’s time to start the day. Breakfast is ready, come down."

Sara nodded silently, shrinking inside at the thought of having to pretend again. This man was too clever not to notice her discomfort. As always, he expected perfect performance.

— "Coming, Dad," — she whispered, turning away so he wouldn’t see the way her face twisted in disgust at the word.

She walked past him, feeling his eyes on her. He always watched like this, as if assessing her every move, every reaction. She descended the stairs into the spacious kitchen, which was so spotless it felt fake. The man sat down at the table and smiled, as if nothing strange was happening.

— "You look lovely, Sara," — he said, his voice soft, as though he really was her father. — "I’ve missed you so much. I’m so happy you’re here..."

Her stomach twisted. She knew what was coming next. "The lesson." That’s what this old man called it when she didn’t live up to the image. These lessons... they were always unpleasant. Everything he did seemed designed to break her will, to test how far she could bend before she snapped.

— "Yes, I... missed you too," — she managed to say, trying to sound interested.

— "Dad," — he corrected coldly, his smile vanishing as he gave her a hard look, as if her innocent mistake was a crime.

Sara felt everything tighten inside at his tone. That "Dad" was just another part of this twisted game she hated but had no choice but to play. Any hint that she wasn’t fully in character, and he would become harsher, colder.

— "Sorry, Dad," — she quickly responded, trying to sound as sincere as possible. Just saying the word felt like it was turning her inside out.

He nodded, satisfied with her correction. The fake smile returned to his face.

— "Remember when you were little?" — he said, settling back in his chair, his cold eyes never leaving Sara, like a predator waiting for its prey’s next move. He fell silent, the pause stretching endlessly, but Sara knew what was expected of her.

Sara held her breath for a moment, feeling the revulsion rise in her throat. Her mind frantically searched for details from the fake childhood memories "Dad" had planted in her over the past weeks — fragments of someone else’s life that she had to memorize. Now she had to recite them as if they were her own memories.

— "Yes, I remember," — she began, forcing a smile that felt as foreign as her body. — "You used to take me to the garden in the mornings... We’d pick oranges, and you told me I should always choose the ripest ones."

He nodded, still watching her intently, as if hanging on every word.

— "And then..." — Sara hesitated briefly, grasping at the threads of these fabricated memories, trying to make them real. — "Then you’d make fresh juice, and we’d sit on the porch, talking about... school and friends." She cursed herself for the tremble in her voice, but he seemed not to notice or, at least, didn’t show it.

— "Yes," — he said softly, leaning back in his chair, — "You were always such a happy little girl. Your mother..." — He paused for a moment, as if lost in thought. — "She always said you were her little sunshine."

Sara nodded, feeling the anger boil inside her. Mother. Another lie, another part of the story she had to uphold. That wasn’t her mother. There was no mother here. Only these walls and this man who insisted she become someone else.

— "Yes," — she replied cautiously, trying to keep her voice steady. — "I remember how she... read me bedtime stories."

The man looked at her, scrutinizing her, as if testing how well she had learned the lesson.

— "Exactly," — he smiled wider, but there was no warmth in it. — "You’re a good girl, Sara, my smart girl. You’ve always been so smart," — he said, reclining in his chair, his voice taking on a dreamy tone. — "Mom was always so proud of you. She said you were the most well-behaved girl. Remember that day in the garden? You were playing with your dolls, and they were always lined up perfectly, like soldiers in formation..."

Sara’s breath hitched. He was delving deeper into these fabricated memories, and each time it became harder for her. Dolls? She had never held a doll in her life, let alone played with one. But now she had to continue this charade.

— "Yes... I remember," — she exhaled, trying to inject warmth into her voice. — "I had a favorite doll... I think her name was Lily?"

His eyes lit up with approval.

— "Exactly, Lily! You never let her out of your sight. And you know what?" — his voice softened, as if revealing a secret. — "I kept her. She’s up in the attic somewhere. I’ll get her for you." Then, almost inaudibly, but clear in the stillness of the house, he muttered, "I think she’ll remind you of your true self."

— "Oh, that would be wonderful, Dad," — she said, hiding her fear behind a shaky smile. — "I... would love to see her again."

— "I always knew my girl would come back to me," — he whispered, leaning in closer. — "We’ll never be apart again. Now everything will be as it should. We’re together, Sara, and now everything will be like it used to be."

He stood, having finished breakfast, and for a moment his gaze softened. But Sara knew it was just another mask. Her hands clenched under the table. She couldn’t keep this up forever.