Page 18 of Acts of Contrition

Chapter Ten

Diana

HELL IS EMPTY, and all the devils are here. Shakespeare said that, and I think he might be right.

When I wake up the morning after being pissed on and nearly drowned, Thomas has a tray of breakfast at my bedside, but his eyes are on me, gaze hard.

“Come here, little sinner,” he beckons.

Reluctantly, I stand, seeing something in his hand but I can’t really tell what. A small airplane bottle of liquor, maybe?

“Open your mouth and stick out your tongue,” he commands.

Before I can stop myself, I comment, “If your plan is to gag me and make me vomit, don’t waste your time. You may be delighted to know I have no gag reflex.” Turns out I lost it after the gangrape. Funny.

He cocks his head, blond ponytail moving to sit on his shoulder as he does. “Why would I wish to make you sick to your stomach?” He must decide my answer doesn’t matter, because he continues, “I have no interest in your lack of gag reflex … yet. Now do as I say and I won’t be forced to punish you more than I am about to.”

For what? What did I even do while I was asleep?

But I stand and do as he asks. He pinches my tongue between his thumb and forefinger.

“If you attempt to bite me, I guarantee what happened yesterday will feel like a day at the spa. Are we understood?”

I nod as well as I can.

“One of the rules here is extremely basic and simple: you will not curse. None of us do, myself included. Granted, you did not know that, so I will be lenient. Only four drops will be applied to your tongue.”

Four drops…

Fuck my life, that little bottle in his hand is hot sauce. I don’t even know what kind; there’s a burning skull on the black label. I don’t know how I handle spicy foods. During my time on my own, I tried a lot of foods I could afford, but never anything hot.

Thomas’ green eyes hold my gaze as he pours four generous drops on my tongue, holding it out so the sauce sinks into the nerve endings.

At first, I feel nothing, and then the burning begins, activating every nerve in my mouth and making my eyes water. The longer it sits on my tongue, the more intense it gets, until it begins to numb, even as it stings.

Finally, after what feels like ages, he lets my tongue go and I make the mistake of swallowing the remainder of the hot sauce, setting my throat ablaze as I cough. Even my nose is stuffy now, and I wonder how someone managed to bottle lava.

“Be good, Diana, and that never needs to happen again.”

Spoiler alert: it happens again. Not often. I do my best to answer anything Thomas asks with minimal words, but once in a while, a curse slips, and there comes the hot sauce. And unlikeother acquired tastes like coffee or strong cheese, I don’t get any more used to it than I was the first time.

Thomas keeps me on a rigid schedule, and I am able to keep track of days, then weeks, in my mind without forgetting. I always know when it is Sunday, because he wakes me up earlier so he can get to church.

I receive regular meals, can bathe daily, and receive daily beatings as well. Twice more Thomas has used me as a personal urinal. Every time when he has finished hurting me, there’s a disconnect between his body and brain. His eyes look dull and bored, like this is business as usual. But his cock is always at attention, rock hard, as if he gets off on tormenting me.

He hasn’t made me bleed yet, and left no scars. Nor has he asked about the few burn marks on my arm. He hasn’t seen the hysterectomy scar yet, but an undamaged woman would have a period by now. If he doesn’t ask about it now, he will soon. I have a feeling he’s an intelligent, well-read man, albeit a nutty one. He isn’t going to forget about that.

I hope he will accept the base truth of, “I can’t have periods.” If he makes me speak of my past, that is what will break me. That will be my undoing.

I built these walls inside my mind, and the voice of my conscience protects them. If they were to fall, if I had to face my past, I would collapse along with said walls. He has asked me a few times about my years on the street, and I give basic answers for that as well. No hints I was anywhere else before. Nothing about my life.

If he knows my name, he likely knows I am an orphan, which could be another reason he took me. No one would come looking. Mike isn’t on any official paperwork, just what he forged to be my “guardian” to pull me out of school and ensure CPFS didn’t come after him.

For all intents and purposes, let Thomas believe I was on my own since my mom died.

But he doesn’t. He asks me too often; he knows I’m lying. And that’s when the beatings get worse. Last night, his silence was more frightening than him threatening me. I had been equally silent when he asked me about the last few years, and when he stopped trying, there was this calculating look in his eyes that freaked me out. Like he was planning something.

Now, today, I haven’t seen him. A young guy not much older than me has brought my meals, never once looking at or speaking to me.

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