Page 9 of Don't Say A Word

I think back to the times I shyly sung at my local bar, urged on by Roxy. There was a part of me that enjoyed the spotlight but also a part that wanted to hide in the shadows. It all seems so pointless now. Nothing more than a dream that has no place in this stark reality.

Silent tears slip down my cheeks. Thoughts of Mum and Dad come unbidden. They will be frantic by now. Not a day goes by when I don’t see them, or at least talk to them. We’re close like that. Being an only child living at home ensures it.

I think of them and wonder what they are doing. I wonder if they are asleep or if the worry of my disappearance is keeping them awake. I wonder if Mum’s sitting in the bay window in her room, staring up at the same stars as I am.

I keep my thoughts locked on them until sleep takes me.

The brush of the door wakes me. The stars are gone and in their place the sun mocks me with its happiness. My captor looks at me in the corner and then over at the bed, but he doesn’t say anything about me still sitting on the cold floor.

“Don’t say a word.” He sits in the chair in the corner, one that is made of wood and metal and looks like it belongs beside a school desk.

“Come. Kneel.”

I stand slowly, taking my time to obey his orders, my bones complaining. He doesn’t chastise, just watches, nothing given away in his gaze. I lower myself before him, kneeling on the cold hard ground.

“Drop the blanket.”

I close my eyes as though it will give me the strength to obey. His hand grips the blanket and tugs it away roughly.

“I don’t like to ask twice.”

He tosses it onto the bed and my eyes follow it longingly. It is my protection. Already I feel cold without it.

“When I come into the room and say those words, that command phrase, this is the position I expect you to take. I do not want to have to instruct you again. Do you understand?”

I nod.

“Good.” He rubs his hands along his jeans, leaning back into the chair, almost as though he is going to relax, as though we are friends about to engage in conversation. When he folds his arms across his chest, it causes the sleeve of his shirt to rise and allows black ink to peek out. “One question.”

I blink, confused by his words.

“One question,” he repeats with a sigh. “You can ask one question.”

I open my mouth and then close it again, unable to find my voice. He lifts his brows. The furrowed lines deepen. Judging from the creases on his face, he must be at least ten years older than me. Maybe more. But the creases around his eyes aren’t as deep as the ones on his brow, as though his expression is more used to worry than happiness.

He clears his throat. “Well?”

“Why me?” The words just fall out. Not when, how, or who he is. Just, why me.

“You’ve been requested.”

“Requested?” I repeat and he nods. “By who?”

Anger flashes in his eyes. “One question.” His voice is low with an undercurrent of cruelty. Getting to his feet, he looms over me for a moment before walking to the other side of the room. “Crawl.”

“Excuse me?” I splutter before I can help myself.

He pulls the lash from his back pocket and stalks toward me, flicking it to the ground so it falls from itself, growing in length. It is one of those retractable ones. One that can be hidden. One that can go unnoticed in the back pocket of his jeans. I scramble away, even though there is nowhere to go, but I’m filled with the need to escape. I cower in my corner, hugging my knees to my chest, hiding as much of myself as I can.

He strikes and pain sears across my shins. A tear rolls down my cheek. The pain is bearable but the humiliation is not.

“Look up,” he commands.

My chin wobbles but I do as I’m told, lifting my eyes until they meet his cold ones. He lifts the lash again. I lift my chin. We stare, both daring the other to take it a step further, but his shoulders slump just a fraction and he walks back to the chair in the opposite corner. He sits down and places the lash on the floor beside him.

“Crawl.” He crosses his arms and leans back, waiting.

I found a dog once. I was only ten at the time and I knew my mother would never let me keep him, so I tried to hide him from her. I was convinced that if I could just keep him in my room, she would never know. But it was not a dog that was used to being trapped in a room. It was not a dog used to being indoors at all. So it scratched at the door, it whined and barked and I was so scared my mother would come home and find him that I yelled at the dog. I screamed and demanded that he stayed in the little bed I had made under mine. But the more I yelled, the more frantic I became, the less obedient he was. He darted away from me every time I approached, and I chased him around the room until I was breathless and frustrated. Then I just slumped against my bed and stared at him. The dog stared back, until finally, he crept across the floor, dragging his body as though he was crawling, and sat at my feet in submission. It wasn’t until I gave up that the dog let me win.

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