Page 147 of Degradation
“What are you doing?”
Devin’s voice makes me shriek. In my concentration, I’d not registered the sound of the door unlocking, or his boots as he stepped inside. It’s the same mistake I made earlier, it’s the same fuckup that nearly got me taken. I need to pay more attention. I need to learn to listen more consciously, even while I’m focusing on other things.
“Paitlyn?” He continues.
“I need to pee.” I say, like that explains why I’ve now got a mild concussion.
“So you decided to squat in the corner?”
I screw my face up at the amusement in his voice. I’m sure this is all very fucking funny for him, meanwhile, I feel more helpless and stupid than ever.
“I obviously didn’t mean to end up here, but you didn’t exactly give me a tour before you locked me in.” I snap.
There’s a moment, a pause you can almost feel, while I guess he’s deciding whether to beat me for my insolence or to let it go.
I brace myself, ready for the pain of his fists, but when they don’t come, it confuses me more. His hand pulls me out and guides me to what feels like the centre of the room.
“If you’re going to be a brat, I’ll put you over my knee and spank you.” He says, though again, his tone doesn’t sound pissed off.
I know I should back down, should smile meekly, and play it safe. But I’m far too wound up for that. “You ditched me here for hours. You didn’t even say a word to me, and now you expect me to be polite? I’m covered in dirt, in blood, in God knows what else…” my tirade seems to burn itself out and I realise then how utterly exhausted I am. I haven’t eaten a decent meal in forever. All those drinks they forced down my throat may have kept me alive but I’m barely more than a skeleton.
Devin doesn’t say anything, he just leads me on, leads me like a pet, and as my feet feel the surface beneath change, as those warm wooden floorboards turn to tile, I realise I’m now in the mythical bathroom.
He starts peeling off my clothes, taking one disgusting layer after another.
I grit my teeth, worried that if I say anything more, he really is going to lose his temper.
Quietly, he guides me across the room, then tells me to take a small step. As I do, I feel the coolness of a ceramic and that tellsme I’m now in a shower. I guess that’s one small mercy then. He’s allowing me to wash.
I hear the twist of something and the clunking of plumbing before hot water is suddenly pouring down on me, on him, on us both.
“Pee.” He says.
“In, in here?” I stammer. He wants me to pee in front of him? I guess it’s not the worst thing I’ve been made to do, is it?
“I thought you needed to go.” He says simply.
“I would have preferred a damn toilet.”
Again, he laughs, as though he finds my irritation to be a form of amusement, a comedy.
“Pee, Paitlyn,” He says again.
I hate that I do it. I hate that I can’t even hide it from him, but I’m so damn desperate and the sound of this water, the feeling of it trickling down my skin, it’s making it so much worse.
It stings a little as it comes out, but then, it always has, ever since Guthrie had my vagina mutilated.
“There, that’s better.” He murmurs.
I open my mouth to tell him where he can stick it, only his hands move, they cup my face, they raise my head and his lips catch mine, his mouth claims mine and every thought, every angry, nasty, twisted feeling in my head disappears.
He’s never kissed me.
No one has kissed me.
No one except Gunther and his kisses were a whole different form of torture, a thing I had to endure and pretend to enjoy.
But there’s no pretence here. No anything.
