Page 8 of Redd

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One year in captivity.

“Get up, Bijou,” hewhispered softly, his voice menacing and dark. “It's time to play.” The metal clinked open and closed as he fiddled with his lighter.

“Yes, Sir.” Standing up off the floor, I rested my arms by my sides, and kept my eyes down.

“Do you know what I want to play today?”

I didn't answer, he wasn't really asking me in that way. Diablo spoke to me, but it was never really to me. He spoke to himself out loud more than anything. No response was actually expected.

“Come closer.” I stepped in. “No, Bijou, closer.” I took another small step in. His features hardened, eyes flashing that devilish glow. “You know I hate when you don't listen my sweet jewel.”

Maybe that's why I do it. . . Just to get a rise.

Maybe I'm just trying to postpone the pain a little longer.

Maybe I just want to piss him off so he finally rids me of this hell.

“Closer. Now.” Bringing myself to his side, his fingers began to draw long strokes up and down the back of my thigh.

Don't touch me!

Another set of words I kept to myself. A scream I had said on so many occasions, but haven't in a really long time. It did nothing. He never listened, he never stopped hitting me, he never stopped while he was violating me to the point I couldn't stop crying.

He never allowed himself to hear me. Those words died as soon as they left my lips.

Sipping his wine, he smiled and looked up at me. “You're tense, I don't like when you're tense.”

Fuck you.

Pinching the inside of my thigh, he winked. I wanted to throw up, I wanted to kick him in his balls and cut off his cock.

Diablo was resting back in his favorite chair, the one he had brought down into an empty room beside my closet, specifically for 'us'to spend time together. I never got to see the rest of his house, confined to my closet, the kitchen, and this single room.

There were no windows, at least none that I could see. The floor was concrete, the walls were covered in that fake wood paneling. He had taken the time to drag in a small flat screen television and a rickety end table.

Every so often, he'd let me watch whatever stupid gangster movie he had, and I'd get to sit while he critiqued how ridiculous the portrayal of his business was.

But I didn't really mind that part so much. I was watching something other than that asshole, that was good enough for me.

I knew why he kept things this way, holding me in such solitude—it gave me no out, no weakness to prey on if a fault in the bars appeared. I only knew of one exit, the kitchen door. And he never let me out of his sight long enough to test it.

Pulling a cigar from his pocket, he tickled it up between my legs, running it over my bare slit. Lifting it to his nose, he purred as he took in a long inhale. “Fuck that's nice.” Biting the tip off, he flipped open his lighter and held the flame close to my knee. “Can you feel that?”

I remained still, doing my best not to look him in the eyes.

“Answer me. Can you feel that?” Moving the dancing flame closer, I watched my skin turn from pale white into bright orange.

Nodding, I spoke low. “Yes.”

“It's hot, it's warm, it's magic really.” Pulling it away, he lit the end of his cigar and drew in a long puff. Holding the smoke in his mouth, wispy tendrils snaked out, working their way up my chest.

Lifting up the lighter, he stared into the flame with a sick smile on his face. I knew what he was doing. He was taunting me, reminding me of the scar on my hand.

He loved that scar. I wasn't sure why that scar held more meaning to him than any of the other ones he had given me. His marks were all over my body, but the scar on my palm was his cherished accomplishment.

I could see it in his eyes, the way the flame danced over his pupils and his hand came up to clutch mine. His rough thumb rolled over the hardened skin, tracing the scarred tissue with pride in his glare.

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