Page 11 of Don't Say A Word

My head nods before I can stop it.

Both hands begin to slowly move down my body, tripping over my elbows, caressing my arms, trailing down my sides, over my hips, his head following suit as he lowers himself until he is on his knees before me.

I swallow the fear lodged in my throat and do my best to think about something else. Anything else. But the feel of his hands on my skin allows for no escape. It grounds me to reality, forcing me to watch.

His hands rest on my thighs, head level with my stomach.

My heart is beating out of my chest as his eyes rise inch by inch over the swells of my body until they meet my mine again. His breath is hot on my flesh. I’m sure he can feel me trembling under his touch.

His eyes do nothing to betray his intentions.

And then he presses his lips to the small rounding below my belly button. Just the faintest of touches. The whisper of butterfly wings.

Tears form and spill. He looks up and one splatters onto his cheek. Letting me go, he captures it with this thumb and sucks it dry. Then he gets to his feet, stepping back as though nothing has happened. As though we aren’t trapped in a room, me naked and exposed as he forces me to suffer his touch.

“You may lower your arms.”

I cross them over myself trying to hide what little I can, but he shakes his head and pulls them apart. “Don’t cover yourself. Ever.”

My hands fall to my sides.

“You may ask another question.”

Without hesitation, I ask, “Who?”

“Who?” he repeats, those grooves in his forehead increasing.

“Who requested me?”

He shakes his head, walking over to the tray left abandoned on the floor, the one holding the knife. “I can’t answer that.” He picks the tray up, holding it flat down the side of his body. “You may ask another.”

I swallow the knot of dread at the back of my throat. “Do I know him?”

He’s at the door by this stage, waiting with it half open. I try to move so I can see outside, but he closes it, leaving me alone with his answer.

“Well, he certainly knows you.”

CHAPTER SIX

MIA

Standing under the scalding hot water, I almost feel normal. Whatever that means. Normal is standing in the shower and letting the water fall over my body. Normal is getting out and drying myself with a towel. Normal is wrapping that towel around my damp hair and stepping into my bedroom to get dressed. Pulling on clothes. Heading to work.

Those things are normal.

What my life is now is not.

If I close my eyes and let the water stream over my face I can imagine I’m back home. The scent of chlorine that lingers after my morning swim. The swirl of steam as it gathers near the vent, too eager and too thick to pass through the small opening. The patch of mold that clings to the ceiling no matter how hard I scrub. The small mark on the mixer that indicates when the water is the perfect temperature. Right between freezing and scalding.

But scalding is my chosen temperature now. I want it to burn, cleanse my skin of all the filth. Purge it of his touch.

Once my skin is pink and my hair smells of cherry blossom, I sink to the bottom of the stall, letting the water rain down on me until it turns cold.

He knows me. It doesn’t seem possible. No one springs to mind. I do not know the type of people who would do this sort of thing. But then again, I guess no one does. The evil of this world does not wear a sign. There is no mark of Cain. But surely, if I knew someone capable of this, I would have sensed it. Evil would have surrounded them like a cloak, dark and thick.

I’m shivering. The water has turned from cold to freezing and I’ve lost track of how long I’ve been sitting here. My body protests when I get to my feet. It is as though it’s ready to just give up and stay here. Let myself die from hypothermia.

There is no towel, so I leave puddled footsteps when I walk back in the room, stopping in my tracks when I notice he is there, waiting for me on the chair, towel resting over his knees.

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