Page 55 of Don't Say A Word

“Hold her still, would you?”

It is only then that Ryker actually looks at me. His eyes lift slowly, and I’m once more struck by the torment they hold. Dark clouds are gathering in their depths, but I don’t know what they mean. He swallows once and turns his gaze to the doctor.

“What is it?” he asks.

Letting go of my arm, the doctor passes him a note. “My list of instructions,” he says. “Now will you hold her?”

Ryker scans the note then nods and walks around to the head of my bed, lowering his hands to hold me in place. I try to move away but the pain stops me.

Tears prick my eyes. “I just want to know what it is.”

Ryker shakes his head, but when his fingers wrap around my arm to pull it toward the doctor, his touch his gentle. Almost apologetic. The needle pierces my skin and the liquid is pushed into my flesh. I feel nothing but a cool sensation in my arm.

Placing everything back into his case, the doctor gets to his feet, his eyes falling over me as though I’m nothing more than a body on a table.

“She will be fine. It will take a while for everything to heal but as long as you regularly apply the cream, I don’t anticipate any scarring or permanent damage. I will leave you with more painkillers and some cream and some bandages to attend to her. But I would suggest you use a less aggressive method for submission in the future.”

I expect Ryker to protest at the doctor’s words and insist that it wasn’t him who inflicted this, but Ryker merely nods and follows the doctor toward the door.

“Ryker?” I say, my voice barely a whisper.

He stops for a moment, but his back is to me and he doesn’t turn.

“Ryker, please look at me.”

My words get caught in the base of my throat, as though Marcel’s fingers are still there and trying to stop them from escaping. There’s a slump to Ryker’s shoulders that I haven’t seen before, but he still doesn’t turn.

And I’ve never felt so alone as when he walks out that door. I want to beg for him to come back. If I could handle the pain, I would kneel before the camera in perfect submission and hope he saw. Anything just to make him come back. Anything to feel the safety of him. Because if he is here, Marcel can’t hurt me.

No one can.

Except for him.

He gets stuck in my mind and I can’t escape him. I wonder who he must be outside these walls, if he has people that care about him, a person who is waiting for him to come home. I wonder about his childhood and what sort of life he must have had that has made him forget. From the hesitation in the way he treats me, I know he is battling something within. Something that torments him.

When the painkiller begins to work and I find a few moments of sleep, it’s Ryker’s face that haunts my dreams. But in them we aren’t trapped in a cell. We are free. We are together. And we are happy. And when I wake, I’m not sure which hurts more. The pulsing thud of pain dulled slightly by the pills, or the realization that my dream will never be true.

But when the hushed hiss of air enters the room with the opening of the door hours later, it isn’t Ryker who appears. It’s Star. My heart starts pounding, scared that Marcel will follow, but the door eases shut behind her and I let out a sob of relief.

She doesn’t look at me as she walks over to the bed, tray in hand, her eyes trained obediently to the ground even though it is just the two of us. She’s dressed in a night slip like I am. Like I was, before Marcel tore it from my body.

I’m trembling under the blanket. Ever since his attack, I can’t seem to get warm. The room is kept cool at all times, but my body had become accustomed to it, regulating itself to adjust. Now, it is as though the cold has seeped into my bones, although my skin is on fire.

Star kneels beside the bed, lowering the tray to the ground. “I’ve brought you some food.” Her voice is soft and gentle, barely a whisper. “And some cream for your wounds.” She still doesn’t look at me. I want her to. I need her to.

“Star.” It feels like years since I’ve spoken. My voice is broken and torn. The bruises around my throat make it hurt. “Star,” I say again, begging her to look at me. I need someone to remind me that I’m still here.

The bruises on her sides have faded to yellowish-brown. Remnants of black circle her eye. The left side of her upper lip is still slightly swollen, but the cut is healed, clean from blood.

She plays with the food on the tray, rearranging it so none of the fruit touches. “Are you hungry?” she asks. And then she lifts eyes so pale it’s as if they have no color at all, and they lock on mine. There is nothing behind them. No emotion. No desperation or fear. Nothing but acceptance.

A sob lodges itself at the back of my throat. I cannot become like her. She’s given up. Accepted her fate.

“You should eat.” Gingerly, she picks up a slice of apple and holds it out to me. It hovers in front of my mouth, waiting for me to open. All the fruit has already been sliced. Ryker usually brings a knife. My dreams have often been stuck on it.

I’m lying on the bed, resting on my side, unable or unwilling to move. I don’t open my mouth but stare into her eyes, searching for the girl who must be in there.

“Eat whenever they offer food. You don’t know when it’s next coming.”

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