Page 3 of Don't Say A Word

“I can hear you,” I whisper. “I know you’re there.”

Footsteps. Quiet. Padded. As though the feet are bare. I jerk my head in various directions, trying to pinpoint the steps.

And then I feel the heat of him and I push myself against the wall, scrambling to my feet, certain he is close, certain he is going to touch me.

He doesn’t.

His breath is hot and heavy. I can feel the heat of his body only inches away from mine. I begin to tremble again, so much so that the chains rattle.

“What do you want?” I ask the darkness.

No reply.

“Who are you?”

His heat dissipates and I am left cold.

“Hello?” I call out. “Are you still there?”

I can hear nothing but the sound of my own breath. It is quick and shallow. Panicked. Now that I’m standing with my arms lowered, the blood rushes back painfully. I clutch my left forearm with my right hand, rubbing back and forth, willing the pain to subside.

“Are you still there?” I ask again. Only this time my voice breaks. “Please?” I plead. “Please talk to me.”

I am begging with my captor, whoever he is. He hasn’t laid a finger on me, he hasn’t uttered a word and yet, already I am begging.

“Just tell me why I’m here. Tell me what you are going to do with me.” I don’t know why I ask this. It isn’t as though the knowledge of what is happening would lessen my terror.

I swallow painfully. My screaming has left my throat torn and my tears have left it tight and constricted. A whistle of air is the only thing to escape.

There is a clang above me. A mechanical sound that whirrs into life. And then the chains around my wrists tighten, lifting my arms higher into the air.

“No!” I shout, surprised by the force of my own voice. I thought it had gone. “No, no, no.” I twist against my restraints, creating a fresh trickle of blood that trails down my arm. “Please,” I beg, as though it will make a difference, as though something can appeal to the darkness that surrounds me.

Up and up the chains lift until I am stretched on my tiptoes, my body protesting at being stretched to its full length.

I hang my head, uncontrollable sobs wrenched from me as I struggle to maintain balance on the tips of my toes. Maybe that’s why I don’t hear the footsteps as they approach. Maybe that’s why I am startled when something brushes against me.

A finger runs down my arm with skin that is calloused and rough. My sobs stop, getting caught in my chest along with my breath. The finger trails down my arm slowly, pulling a line of blood, drawing on my skin like he is enjoying the torment he knows his touch inflicts. The torment of the unknown.

His touch doesn’t burn so much once it is shielded by the material of my sleeve. He runs it over my armpit and down my side until it trips over the waistband of my jeans. Then it just stays there, hooked for a second, or maybe it’s a moment disguised as an eternity. When the movement starts again, creeping along my waistband, slipping closer and closer to the buttons of my jeans, I scream.

I scream loud and long and hope I shatter his eardrums. His finger leaves abruptly so I stop screaming, but when it comes back to sear my skin, I scream again. With all my strength, I scream until I imagine my vocal cords snapping and I am wrenched into silence. Only, it isn’t the snap of my vocal cords that silences me, it is the loss of air as firm hands shove me against the wall, lifting my feet from the ground. Something presses against my throat. His arm? I can’t concentrate on what it feels like because it cuts off all the air to my lungs. I gasp, pressed against the wall. I flail my feet, a surge of triumph rising when one connects with what I can only assume is the shin of his leg and a grunt of air is expelled. The pressure against my throat lessens and I swing back, my toes searching for the ground.

But he is still there. I can feel his eyes on me.

He leaves me dangling for a few moments and I hope he will give up and leave me alone, even if that means dangling from the ceiling, wrists in chains and feet constantly searching for the security of the floor. It’s better than being here with him, having his hands run over my body, one step away from doing things I don’t want to think about.

Then my feet are swung from the ground, his hand is at my neck and I am pressed against the wall again. He is quick this time. Quick and rough. My shirt is ripped open and buttons fall to the floor like rain. Coldness presses against me and I hear a slice as my bra is removed. His hand falls from my neck and I swing like a pendulum, my toes frantically grabbing at the floor. I scream again but it doesn’t matter. His hands claw at my jeans, wrestling them over my hips. I flail again and this time my knee connects with a sharp part of him, but he doesn’t stop. He keeps tearing at my clothes until they are gone and I am left naked and dangling.

The chains rattle with my trembling. But I don’t scream this time. By now I know there is no point. If anyone else was here, they would have come to help by now. Either that, or they are in on it too.

And one dose of evil is enough.

I expect his hands to come back. I expected them to brush against my skin and take what they desire. But the only thing that greets me is the clunk of the chain as it starts to lower.

The room grows colder and darker. Colder and darker than it was when he was present. That’s how I know I am alone.

That’s how I know he is gone.

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