Page 24 of Don't Say A Word

CHAPTER TWELVE

RYKER

Marcel stands in the doorway to our bedroom, white bubbles foaming at the corners of his mouth as he brushes his teeth. He’s talking. I can tell from the way he pauses, the way his mouth moves occasionally, and the way he cocks one eyebrow, waiting for my response.

I flick my eyes over to him and point to the headphones covering my ears. They are noise canceling ones. And they are my new favorite thing.

I haven’t been back in to see the girl since Junior left. His visit shook me a little, made me remember what’s at stake for my role in training this girl. She is to be his and I can’t mess with her. I can’t get my eyes stuck on her and let my mind imagine things that simply can’t be.

Marcel tries again, jerking his head at me as if with the added emphasis I would hear him. I just shake my head and shrug my shoulders, pushing one shoe off with the toe of my other foot. I hate wearing shoes. There’s something about them that just irritates me. They fall to the ground and Marcel shakes his head, reaching down to pick them up. He holds them in the air, still talking, the toothbrush bouncing up and down, then opens the dresser and dumps them into the bottom drawer. He uses hand motions to indicate that’s where I should keep them in the future.

I close my eyes.

Then my headphones are ripped away.

I open one eye, then the other.

“Food,” Marcel says, slowly and loudly.

“Don’t fucking touch me.”

“I didn’t fucking touch you. I touched your headphones.”

I reach for them but he holds them out of my grasp. Taking a deep breath, I close my eyes again, internally counting in order for my anger to subside.

“Food,” Marcel says again. There’s silence for a bit and then I hear him spit into the sink. “She needs food.”

I sit bolt upright. Shit. I hadn’t even thought of it.

“Kitchen,” Marcel mutters at my unasked question. “Just grab anything you want.”

The kitchen is small. A gas burner sits on the bench. Dirty dishes are stacked into the sink as though waiting for a maid to arrive. But the fridge and shelf that acts as a pantry are overflowing, and the freezer is packed. I open the fridge door, wondering what sort of food she likes. Then I remember that shouldn’t matter, so I grab a tray covered in plastic from the back of the fridge. It looks as though someone has made a cheese platter and then decided against eating it. I wonder if it’s Marcel’s and then I decide I don’t care. Grabbing a packet of crackers from the shelf and tipping them onto the tray, I walk down the hallway and key in the combination to her door. I’m just about to walk in when I duck into the cleaning cupboard instead, and grab a cloth, knowing I need to clean the wounds on her wrists properly.

As I walk in, I utter the command phrase. She’s sitting on the bed, eyes downcast, refusing to look at me. When I get closer, her eyes lift, but only to look at the tray of food. I can almost see the hunger in her expression. Almost, but not quite because she still won’t look at me. I don’t know why it bothers me. It shouldn’t. It should be something I’m training her to do. Look down. Show submission. But for some reason, I want her to lift those eyes.

“Come,” I say, trying to soften my tone. “Kneel.”

Even with her eyes still locked on the floor, I can see her battling within. I want to tell her I’m only trying to help.

“You hungry?” That makes her look at me. There’s so much going on in her eyes. Hatred. Hunger. Humiliation.

I focus on her wrists. “We need to clean up those wrists.” The blood has dried and the wounds are superficial, but I still need to clean them. At my words, her hands drop to her sides, the hatred in her eyes burning harder than it was before. I grab her wrist, pulling it toward me. Even if she hates me, I’ve still got a job to do.

“You’re hurt.”

And there are those eyes again. They burn into me accusingly, so I try to make her understand. I don’t want to hurt her. I tell her that. And I also lie, telling her there will be no pain unless she chooses it. I feel little guilt for my lie, wanting it to bring some sort of relief, hope even, as useless as it is.

“Open.”

And here goes the battle again. She sits still, frozen almost. Her muscles strain with the effort of holding herself back, but all she does is stare at the food. She doesn’t reach for it, doesn’t open her mouth so I can feed her. I try to tempt her, pushing the plate closer, telling her there’s no point in starving herself, but her only response is to move those dark eyes back to me. She’s gone from not looking at me, to staring unwaveringly, like I’m caught in an unwanted staring contest.

And then I see something I can hold over her. Something I can use as both a reward and a punishment. There are so many questions racing through her mind. So I tell her that. I tell her she’s doing well. But all that gets me is more loathing in her glare.

With a heavy sigh of what I hope comes across as annoyance, I pick up the cracker. I need to set her straight. Maybe she thinks she can escape this. Maybe she thinks it is temporary. It isn’t. This is to be her life. Her eyes study my face as I speak. If her not looking at me was disturbing, having her glare so unflinchingly is even worse. But at the end of it all, when I command her to eat, she does.

I count it as a win. Even though she’s silent. Even though she snaps the food from me as though she wishes it were my fingers, I still count it as a win.

Marcel is watching cartoons when I return. He’s dressed in nothing but a tight pair of underwear. I grab a blanket from where it’s fallen to the floor and toss it over him.

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