Page 6 of Don't Say A Word

“Don’t say a word.” He tugs at the tape that runs halfway across my cheek.

I nod. Eagerly. Desperately.

“Speak and you will be punished. Do you understand?”

I nod again, anything to get the gag removed from my mouth, anything to breathe. The tape sticks to my skin as he slowly removes it. The material spills from my mouth. I swallow first, swallow the pool of saliva, swallow the tears at the back of my throat, and then I suck in gasps of air, allowing them to coat my lungs.

I hear the splash of water, the squeak of shoes as he kneels before me. I don’t know how I know this. It’s as though without my sight, my awareness has increased. But I long for vision. I long to be able to see the man before me and face my monster.

He is wringing out a cloth. I hear the splatter of water falling back into a bowl. I imagine hands, hard and calloused, twisting the material.

“I am going to clean you.”

I nod again, the memory of being gagged too fresh to risk speaking. I flinch when he touches me.

“Don’t,” he warns. His voice isn’t as filled with evil as I want it to be. It’s deep and it’s dark, it ignites terror within me but from fear of the unknown, not because of its tone.

I will myself to stay still as the warm cloth is pressed to my thigh again. Even though my eyes are bound shut, I close them tight as the cloth slides between my legs. I tense, but I resist the urge to squeeze them closed.

“Open,” he instructs.

This time I shake my head. It’s an involuntary movement. It happens before I can stop it. There is a whistle in the air and then something smacks against the back of my knees, buckling me. As I fall, the chain grips the flesh around my wrists. The pain of the lash was sharp and it stings, but it was the surprise of it that caused me to buckle.

“Open.” His voice is firmer this time, allowing no disobedience.

I steady myself and shift my legs further apart. The cloth is pressed to my inner thigh and moves upward. A whimper escapes. A silent plea. Warmth brushes over my sex then falls down my legs, wiping me clean. The floor is next. The cloth makes a swooshing sound as it mops up the puddle of urine. Then there is the squeak of his shoes as he rises to his feet again.

“I am going to remove the blindfold.”

I nod, my breath coming out in silent sobs.

Footsteps move behind me. His hands toy with the knot. The blindfold is removed but I keep my eyes shut, feeling the light invade even though they are closed. All I see is red. I don’t know if I want to open them. Will sight increase my terror or lessen it? Do I want to see the man who has taken me?

I blink. Just once. Enough to allow the smallest amount of light to sting my eyes. I blink again, a few times in rapid succession. My vision is blurred. There is a square of light to my right and I twist away from it.

Slowly, I pluck up enough courage to open them fully. I can make out his figure sitting in a chair on the opposite side of the room.

I expected a monster but there is only a man.

Blue eyes stare back at me. No. They are green. Blue and green and gray, like the color of the ocean during a storm. He is sitting with his legs spread wide, elbows resting on his knees and hands clasped between them. I search him, scanning for familiarity, but I have never seen him before. He is a stranger.

“Who are you?” I ask.

Getting to his feet, he picks up the lash leaning against the wall. He stands behind me and I feel the sting of the whip again.

“Don’t say a word,” he growls. He walks around slowly, coming to a stop in front of me. “This is your command phrase. I will use it when I enter the room. You will obey my instructions. Do you understand?”

I nod again, my punishment bringing anger this time, not fear. I hope he can see it in my eyes. The defiance. The burst of insanity.

He stares back at me unflinchingly and I search those ocean-eyes for a hint of humanity, a hint of regret or remorse, uncertainty or hesitation.

There is none.

His face is covered in a beard. Unkempt and messy. Deep furrows mark his forehead. His hair is thick and disheveled, long enough to tangle on the top yet it is clipped short around the sides.

I burn his image into my brain.

I will remember him in detail. One day, I will describe him to the police and I don’t want to miss a thing. His clothing is unassuming, just a t-shirt, a jacket and jeans. His shoes look new, made of leather that squeaks when he walks.

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