Page 60 of Daughter of a Monster

He lets the clippings fall to the floor and I frown. I’ll have to sweep them up later. Tidiness and cleanliness have become somewhat of an obsessive hobby for me down here. It’s not like there’s a lot else for me to do.

“Can I ask you something?” He’s onto my other foot now and glances up at me quickly before resuming his concentration.

“Go ahead.”

He stops clipping and wraps his hand around my foot, as though he’s scared that I’m going to leap away and he’s holding me in place.

“Do you have family, you know, out there?” His chin jerks toward the door.

Dread tightens the back of my throat. It always does if I think about them. That’s why I can’t even find comfort in dreaming about her. It reminds me of everything I’ve lost.

“Doesn’t everyone?” I answer, noncommittally.

“Not everyone, no.”

My heart skips a beat. This is the closest he’s come to revealing something about himself. “You don’t?”

Even though I can’t see his face, I can still tell when he smiles. Something changes, but I just don’t know what it is. I’m not sure if it’s because his mouth makes a sound as his lips crease into place, or if it’s his eyes that change. Maybe it’s the way his voice changes when he speaks, his words forming differently due to the curve of his mouth.

“Of course I have family.” He snorts. “It’s just they don’t always stick around, you know.” His attention turns back to clipping my nails.

“How old are you?” I ask.

“Why? How old do you think I am?” He doesn’t look up.

I shrug, leaning further back on the bed and resting on my elbows. “Young. Younger than me.”

He doesn’t answer and instead finishes clipping my toenails, then leans forward requesting my hands. It’s no longer strange for him to handle me with such familiarity. I’ve been here long enough now that I don’t feel fear at his presence. We’ve developed a predictability to our interactions. He always asks when he expects something of me and he doesn’t do it often. It’s only occasionally that I see a flash of repulsion in his eyes when he looks at me.

“You never answered my question about your family.” He holds my hand gently. My nails are chipped and broken but soft. My diet and lack of sunlight haven’t exactly been the best grounds for nail and hair strength. In fact, every time I wash my hair, strands of it fall away in my hands. He’s complained about it a few times, having to unblock the drain from the clogged hair, but he hasn’t done anything to help. I had to beg him to bring the nail clippers, threatening him with all the disgusting descriptions of ingrown nails that I could possibly imagine.

I’ve also asked him for a razor but he’s refusing to bring down one of those. I think he thinks I’ll use it on myself. He doesn’t realize there’s plenty of things I could use if I wanted to take that option. But I don’t. I never cut myself because I enjoyed the pain or received some sort of relief like some people do. I did it as a way of rebellion. A way to scar my body when they insisted I had no control over it.

“I’ve got family,” I say quietly. “Though I don’t like thinking about them.”

“Why not?”

I almost laugh at the naivety of his question.

“Because they’re gone.”

“Gone?”

“I can’t cling to the hope that I’ll see them again because it hurts too much. I gave that dream up years ago. It’s just too painful.”

“So you don’t think about them at all?”

I shake my head, lying. “Never.”

After he finishes my nails, he looks at my hands to inspect his work. He makes this sound, satisfied with his work.

“Thank you.” I shuffle closer to the edge of the bed, letting my knees brush against his. He notices the contact and his entire body freezes. He keeps his gaze on the place where our bodies touch. Even through the thick material, I can feel the heat of him. He’s always warm. Always feels as though there’s some sort of fire inside him. But maybe I’m imagining it. Maybe it’s simply because he’s the only other person I’ve touched in months.

Lately, I’ve been wondering if I should let him win a little. Try and convince him I’m starting to have feelings for him. The truth is, I am, but I know those feelings aren’t real. They’re forced.

Forced by my captivity.

Forced by my lack of human contact.

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