Page 59 of Daughter of a Monster

I pound on the door some more, but he’s gone.

Turning around, I slump against the wall and let myself slide to the ground. The tears start before I can stop them. There’s a twisting sensation in my gut, nausea winding its way through my body.

I’m bent over a table, my hair grabbed roughly by unseen hands. The edge of the table jars against my hip with each thrust.

I squeeze my eyes closed and push my palms against them, rubbing back and forth and trying to remove the image.

He lets my hair go and my head flings toward the table stopping just before it whacks into the wood. But then the hands are around my neck. Fingers tighten, digging into my flesh. It gets harder to breathe. The world starts to go dark at the edges.

I jump to my feet and run into the bathroom, assuming first position in front of the mirror.

“First. Second. Third. Fourth. Fifth,” I chant, moving with each word. “First. Second. Third. Fourth. Fifth.”

The girl in the mirror looks back at me through terrified eyes. Her chin begins to tremble. There are tear tracks down her cheeks.

“First. Second. Third. Fourth. Fifth.”

HOPE

She appears in my dreams sometimes. It’s always the same. I’m chasing her but I can’t catch her. She’s laughing as she runs but I can’t hear her. The sound surrounds me but it floats like a mist. Unattainable. A memory that’s slipping away. It’s the same with her face. Each time she turns around, there’s a smile, blonde hair whipped by the wind, blue eyes sparkling, but I still can’t see her. Not her face. Not what she looks like.

That’s why I don’t like to think about my life before. Because it’s gone, slipped away and out of my reach. If I saw her now, I wouldn’t recognize her. I would walk right past her on the street. I wouldn’t stop at the sound of her voice.

My own daughter would be a stranger.

She probably calls someone else Mother. She probably doesn’t even know my name. It’s been years since I was taken from her, but I’m unsure how many. I tried to work it out once, but it’s difficult when you’ve spent periods with no way to track the time.

It’d been months since I’d had the dream, or rather, nightmare, so it surprised me with its vividness. How something can be both vivid and forgettable is hard to fathom, but when I woke, all the feelings were still there, even if the images were not. I may not be able to remember what she looks like, or remember the sound of her voice, but I remember what it felt like to be with her. I remember the joy of watching her, the undeniable happiness I felt from knowing she was laughing. The love that both broke my heart and mended it.

And now, simply from the memory of the dream, it feels as though my heart has been ripped open and left to bleed. I sit on my bed, the springs protesting as I draw my knees to my chest and wrap my arms around them.

I have a lamp now. Some pencils and paper. Even a few books. I have them stacked beside my bed, using them as a table to hold the lamp. It’s comforting knowing I can turn a light on at any stage. I guess it was my reward for kissing him as he appeared with it when he finally returned.

Each visit he brings me something. Once it was a rose, a single stem, the thorns and leaves plucked away. I placed it in a glass of water and watched it die. There was something more beautiful in its death than there was in its full bloom. The way the petals withered and fell, turning to potpourri on the metal shelf was somehow soothing. Next time he brings me one I’m going to hang it up to dry. That way it will live in death forever.

He’s bought me more clothes. Casual ones. Comfortable ones. They are far too big for my frame but being able to simply wear a t-shirt and sweatpants again is a luxury too great to complain about the size.

I have a bar of soap. A scented candle and a box of matches. He’s even promised to bring me a little electric cooker so he can leave me something to eat other than cereal. I just don’t know when that’s going to happen, or what I’ll have to do to get it.

So far, it hasn’t been anything too bad. Once he got me to give him a shoulder massage. But he still hasn’t tried to force himself on me. And he hasn’t told me his motivation for keeping me here. It’s like he’s unsure himself. He keeps talking about waiting. About another man. About how happy he’ll be. He alternates between excitement over this man and anger at who I am and what I’ve done. But he never gives specifics. Never reveals the details of his disgust.

I have a line of rope strung across the room which I can hang my clothes when I wash them. I have pictures I’ve drawn on the walls. They’re not great, I’m no artist, but they’re something to look at other than concrete.

I look forward to hearing the groan of the door now because the door means him and he means I’m not alone. There’s someone else here to validate my existence.

The lamp is on and the glow of it means I can see him as he descends the steps. He’s carrying a bag slung over his shoulder. Even though I’ve been here for weeks, he still wears the balaclava to hide his head.

It gives me the faintest glimmer of hope. If I were to be trapped here forever, wouldn’t he just remove it? He wouldn’t care if I saw his face, because I’d never get the chance to describe it to anyone.

“Hey,” he says, flicking on the overhead light and twisting the key into the padlock. He pulls something small and shiny out of his pocket. “I brought nail clippers.”

Climbing off the bed, I go to reach for them, but he shakes his head and sits down on the chair, patting his lap. I plonk myself back onto the bed and lift my leg. He merely holds my foot for a while, his hand warming up the cold flesh.

“Are you always this cold down here?” he asks, rubbing my foot to create friction and heat.

I shrug. “Sometimes it’s hot. Sometimes it’s cold. I guess it just depends on what’s happening out there.” I nod my head toward the door.

“I’ll bring down another blanket soon.” He grips my big toe and starts to clip my nail.

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