Page 40 of Daughter of a Monster

“Good girl.”

And for some twisted reason, I preen under his praise.

HOPE

I’m left alone for most of the time; my master, or whoever he is, only comes to visit once a day. He brings food and water. Talks to me through the fence separating us, his fingers clutching the wire desperately, as though he’d do anything for it to disappear. There’s a gate in the fence, a padlock securing it, but he’s never opened it. Never tried to enter.

It’s the longest time I’ve ever gone untouched. It’s a strange feeling. On one hand, I’m relieved and grateful. But there’s a part of me that misses being touched by another person, even an evil one. There’s something about touch that reminds you you’re human.

It’s always nighttime when he comes to see me. I know that from the darkness of the sky. So once he leaves, I put myself onto the metal-framed bed, covering myself with the single blanket he brought me on the second day. I didn’t let him know how excited I was by it. I merely took it from him and lay it on the bed. But once I was alone, I wrapped it around my shoulders and snuggled into the warmth. It’s one of those plush blankets made from faux fur that feels divine. The fur is gray at the tips and black at the base, matching the concrete walls. For hours I just sat there, stroking the material with my fingers, drinking in the luxury of it. Imagining I was somewhere else. Imagining I was free.

When I wake each morning, or what I assume to be morning, I open a single packet of cereal. It’s one of those sample packs, a different flavor each day until the cycle begins again. Because of the darkness, I can’t tell which flavor it is until I take the first mouthful. Today it’s puffed rice. I like the way they crackle and snap when I pour on the water. I don’t have any milk. After finishing my breakfast, I rinse the bowl in the sink and then proceed to clean myself as much as possible. It’s been five sleeps since I wet my hair, so I’m standing bent over the sink, head beneath the tap when I hear the twist of the lock and the groan of the door.

Ringing as much water out of my hair as I can, I dart back to my bed, feeling some comfort in keeping a distance between me and my captor even though we are separated by wire. He doesn’t usually come during the day, and the light that falls across the floor when he pulls the door open touches my bare feet.

Sunshine. Warm and comforting. A tiny ray of happiness. I slide off the bed, placing as much of my body into its path as possible, closing my eyes and breathing in the fresh air that flows through the open door. But once he’s inside, he pulls the door shut again, sending us both into darkness. Instantly I’m cold.

He curses and I hear him searching the wall for the light switch. When he finally turns it on, it blinds me. It always does. But I no longer shield my eyes. I sit there with them open, ignoring the tears that run down my cheeks. I’m so sick of being in the dark that I don’t want to miss one moment of light.

He’s got a bag slung over his shoulder. Hoisting it to the ground, he searches his pockets for the key to the padlock, then opens the gate. Usually, he just pushes the supplies through, but today he enters.

My heart beats faster. There’s always been the wire between us, a fence to keep him away from me. But now there’s nothing. I watch him as I stay perched on the bed. He unloads boxes of cereal onto the shelves. Big boxes. Not the little sample packs I’m used to.

Between the slits of his balaclava, his eyes flick over to me. “I told you I’m not going to hurt you. There’s no need to be scared.”

I stay where I am, watching as he pulls them out of his bag. I watch the boxes as though I’m scared of them. He stops once five boxes are on the shelves.

“I’m going away for a few days,” he says.

That makes me sit up a little, scooch closer to the edge of the bed. “Where?” I ask before thinking.

He just shakes his head as though he’s disappointed in me for asking. He’s closer to the bed now. It’s strange not having a barrier between us. I’ve grown accustomed to it. It allows me a boldness in my thinking that I hadn’t had before. A sort of protection. But now that he’s removed it the fear of the unknown starts to prickle over my skin again.

His gaze flicks over me, narrowing in on the wet strands of hair that hug the side of my face. I push them away, folding them behind my ear. But I can’t tell what he’s thinking. There’s no hunger in his gaze. No hatred either. I wish I could see more of him than just the slits of his eyes. It’s hard for me to gauge the sort of man he is without being witness to his expressions. I’m confused by him. I’ve been here for over two weeks and he’s yet to tell me why, or demand anything from me.

He often looks at me as though the sight of me causes him pain. I don’t know what he’s waiting for. Any other man in his position would just take whatever it was he wanted, but not him. It’s almost like there’s a test. He’s seeing how long he can deny himself.

“There’s enough food here to last you while I’m away, but I’ve included an extra box of cereal, just in case. I don’t want you going hungry.”

He takes another step forward. He’s right next to the bed now, close enough to reach out and touch me, but he doesn’t. I resist the urge to push myself against the wall and create more distance between us. Even though I’m still wary, there’s something almost appealing about his hesitation to be near me.

I clear my throat. “How long will you be gone?”

I swear he smiles beneath his mask. The material moves slightly, as though being stretched. “Are you going to miss me?”

Part of me wants to answer yes. Part of me refuses to.

He sighs. “When are you going to let down your guard, Hope? You’ve been here for weeks and that’s one of the first questions you’ve asked. I don’t know how many times I’ve told you I don’t want to hurt you.” He shuffles closer. “And I haven’t, have I? I haven’t done anything to hurt you.”

He places a hand on my knee. It’s a gentle touch, but one that makes my skin crawl. I don’t know why. I’ve experienced far worse. His touch doesn’t come with pain or pleasure. It comes with a familiarity, a confidence in the fact that he knows he owns me.

“If you can call locking someone up and keeping them captive not hurting them, then sure. You haven’t hurt me. Yet.”

His head drops. “I thought you’d be relieved.”

“Relieved?” I repeat.

His hand is still on my knee, burning the skin it’s touching. I want to move away, shift my knee, but I also don’t want to upset him.

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