Page 76 of Daughter of a Monster

He presses pause on the movie and turns to face me. “Because if you got to see me in all my perfection, you couldn’t help but fall in love with me.”

“I thought that was what you wanted?”

He laughs. “Well, it’s not. So it would be unfair of me to show you my face because then you wouldn’t be able to help it.”

I laugh then. It’s an easy laugh. One that comes naturally.

It makes me feel sick.

I’m constantly torn between accepting my lot, finding what happiness I can in my situation, or rebelling against it. Common sense tells me to grab any snippet of happiness and hold onto it fiercely, even if it means giving in and accepting my fate. And then there’s the part of me that simmers with rage. My captor doesn’t see that part often, but it’s there. It’s like a dormant volcano just waiting for the right moment to erupt.

“Come here.” He pats the space beside him. “Watch the rest of the movie with me.”

I shuffle closer. He smells like a roast dinner and I inhale deeply, wondering who cooked it for him. I know he didn’t cook it himself. I don’t know a lot about him, but I know his cooking skills don’t extend that far. I’ve seen him attempt to boil noodles.

He doesn’t press play. He leans in close and smells my hair, resting his forehead against the top of my head. “Tell me about your life before.”

Tightness grips my chest. It always does whenever I think about my life before. That’s why I never think about it. I spent months, years even, pining for something that’s long lost to me. It took a lot from me when I finally gave it up.

Hope can be beautiful.

But it can also be cruel.

So I purposely misunderstand the question. “I’ve told you. They were all horrible men. They were nothing like you.” The lie tastes bitter. But there’s still truth to what I’m saying. He is different from those other men. He hasn’t forced me, hasn’t hurt me. It doesn’t make him better. But it might make him less evil.

“Not about the men. Tell me about your life before then. Who were you? Who did you love?”

My body tenses. “I don’t remember,” I say quietly.

His voice deepens with an unvoiced threat. “I think you do.”

I sigh loudly and pick at a loose thread on his jeans. There’s a tear over his kneecap.

He jostles the bed, shaking us both. “Tell me.”

“I can’t remember,” I repeat. My hair falls around my face, shielding me from him. He pushes it back, looping it over my ear so he can see me properly. His finger rests on my chin and he tilts it upwards.

“Hey,” he says. “Look at me.”

I lift my eyes but already tears are forming. Tears I don’t want him to see. I’m too vulnerable. It feels like he’s staring into my soul and making demands I don’t want to obey.

“Tell me who you were. Your family, your life, your dreams, your hopes.”

“You’re just being cruel now.”

He sits up. “Cruel? You think I’m being cruel?”

“You are being cruel. You’re asking me to think about things I don’t want to think about.”

“So you just forgot them then, the people who loved you?”

“Please, don’t make me talk about it.”

“Why is it so difficult? I thought you’d want to think about them?”

“You thought I’d want to? It’s been years since I’ve seen them, years. They probably think I’m dead. They’ve probably had a funeral. Moved on with their lives. And so they should. I wouldn’t expect them to wait around, pining for a girl who’s never going to return.”

He rests his hand on my knee. “Don’t say that.”

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