Page 23 of Lost Petal

Chapter 13

Petal

There’s a new tray with food waiting on the bench, with the lid still hiding whatever it is she brought me this time. It was the same girl as before, wearing the same outfit and the same uncertain expression on her face. Her dark locks were a little more ruffled this time, partly hiding her face as she tried to avoid eye contact with me at all times. Neither of us said a word. I waited for her to look at me, to say a word, a greeting, anything to acknowledge my existence while I was sitting on the soft leather bench when she carried in the tray, which she placed right next to me.

But she gave me nothing, not even a quick glance. She seemed afraid of me even, retreating as quickly as possible once she’d delivered the food and taken the old tray with her. My eyes were glued to her sad face, waiting, hoping, searching for any kind of human interaction she was willing to give me. But my unspoken wish remained unanswered. Her fear was palpable in every motion, every breath she took. It was odd, to say the least.

Why would she be afraid of me? Why would she not even look at me this time?

Is it him? Did he say something that makes her act this way? Who is she, anyway? And what is she doing here?

Going down the rabbit hole, again.

Who is she? Who am I? Why are we here?

A cloak, heavy with terror and sorrow, wraps itself around my shoulders, lowering my gaze as it pushes down every single part of me. It happens every time my mind wanders to these nagging questions, and it does that a lot while I’m alone.

I’ve lost all sense of time. I don’t know how long I’ve been down here. I don’t know how long it’s been since he phrased his despicable demand to me. I don’t know how long it’s been since he left me alone to think about it, not saying when he’d come back to hear my answer. Even if he did say, how would I know? There’s nothing in here that could help me tell time, no clock, no window, no light from the outside that could tell me whether it’s day or night. Nothing.

The single light bulb has been set to the same setting ever since it was first switched on, not indicating any passing of time either.

It’s wearing me down. Being down here by myself with nothing but my emptied mind to occupy myself is grueling.

And I’m sure that’s exactly what he wants. He wants to wear me down, to weaken me and make me defenseless against his strange intrusion.

He wants to control me, but I won’t let him.

I will, however, let him think he’s getting what he wants. That will be my strength, my secret.

I have been staring at the new tray ever since the girl left the room, pondering what to do. My previous form of rebellion achieved what I’d hoped for. It called him back into the room, and while he still refused to answer any of my questions, he was willing to talk to me and bring up a deal that could get me out of here. I wonder if any of that would’ve happened if I hadn’t used the sandwich to spell out my demands instead of just gulping it down like he intended.

It makes me wonder whether I should do it again, whether I should also use this second meal as a chance to get my will heard. But when I finally lift the lid to see what’s hidden underneath, I’m faced with a bowl of hot soup instead of a sandwich that can be torn to pieces. It’s more of a stew, really, loaded with vegetables and ground beef, curling with savory taste and promising warmth. A single stick of rosemary is resting on a pile of potatoes at the edge of the bowl.

I can name all of these things. I know this is a hearty beef stew. I know what it is made of; I have an idea of what it will taste like.

Why do I know all these things, but can’t even remember my own name? How is it possible to be this detached from my own reality while still having a pretty clear understanding of everything else around me?

My stomach growls at the sight of the stew, and I cast away any thought of using this food to bring across a message toward him. The thought of pouring this stew out on the floor makes me sick, and my stomach’s growling drowns out the voices of my rebellious mind with such vigor that I decide to stop fighting, just for now.

In any case, I will need my strength if I want to get out of this.

I turn around, straddling the bench so that the bowl is in front of me as I reach for the spoon that’s been placed next to it. Taking in the delicious smell with a deep inhale, I prepare myself for something I never thought I’d do down here: Enjoy a meal.

A good meal. It tastes sublime, and once I’ve taken that careful first spoon, I forget all inhibitions that may have slowed me down before. I am starving, and this stew is the best thing that has happened to me ever since I woke up.

It satiates me, it warms me. It feels like a comforting hug, temporarily saving me from this horrendous situation. I even manage a smile as I devour it, and as I keep eating, I feel something else washing over me, a rare feeling that’s been painfully lacking most of my waking time.

Familiarity.

I’ve had this stew before. This particular stew. It tastes like home, like something that has been with me for a very long time.

I pause with my eyes glued to the food as I try to come up with an explanation.

Who made this stew? Was it him? Was it the girl? Was it someone else? Is it someone I know? Someone who knows me?

I furrow my eyebrows as anger mixes with my pointless contemplating. I will never know, will I? I can keep asking these questions inside my head all day long, but he will never deign me with an answer to any of them.

Unless I comply. Unless I do what he asks of me. Maybe then I’d have a chance.

He said he’d let me out of here if I come for him. As encroaching and humiliating as that idea appears, I know I may have to say yes to his demand, even if it doesn’t mean that I will actually go along with it.

He must be crazy to think that I could enjoy an orgasm in this scenario. But if that is all he wants to see, if that’s what will bring me one step closer to the answers I need, then what’s stopping me from obliging with his impertinent wish?

After all, I could always fake it, couldn’t I?

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