Page 8 of Don't Say A Word

“First we need to clean up those wrists.” He nods to where my hands are folded neatly in my lap. The submissive placement of them suddenly strikes me and I let them fall to my sides. His face twists into an expression I can’t read as he holds one hand out, palm up. I just look at it. He shoves it a little closer, urging me to place my hand in his.

“I’m just going to clean off the blood.”

His patience wears thin and he leans over to grab me, jerking my wrist toward him, examining the red welts and the broken skin. “You’re hurt.”

No shit, I want to say. But the wounds are superficial. The skin is only broken because I twisted and turned in my restraints. I shake my head almost involuntarily as I correct myself internally. The skin is broken because he chained me.

He looks up, the lines in his forehead bunching together. “I don’t want to hurt you, do you understand?” He peers into my eyes as if trying to ascertain my level of comprehension like one would a child. “And I won’t hurt you as long as you do exactly what you are told.” Gently, he wipes the dried blood from my skin, moving downwards to clean away the trails down my arms. “You are to be trained for pleasure. There will be no pain unless it is your choice to have it.” He wipes across the broken skin as if to emphasize his point.

I flinch. But I don’t pull away. I don’t move.

Trained for pleasure. The words echo around my head. Pleasure. A sick feeling creeps inside. I’ve heard about human trafficking, stealing women to train them as sex slaves. But it doesn’t happen to people like me.

After he finishes cleaning the dried blood, he bends down and picks up the tray, balancing it on his knees. I want to reach out and snatch the food like some sort of untamed beast. Instead, I simply stare at it. It’s better than staring at him. Those eyes are unnerving.

There is an array of food. Cheese. A hard-boiled egg. Salami. Crackers. Pickled onions. Even a little bowl of relish. It seems odd under the circumstances.

He picks up one of the crackers and dips it into the relish. “Open.”

I look up at him and hope he can see the hatred in my eyes.

“Open.”

When I don’t, he asks, “Not hungry?”

I don’t move. I just kneel there, hands folded in my naked lap, nipples prickling with the cold.

He puts the cracker down. “I know you’re hungry. Your stomach has been rather vocal about it.” He pushes the plate further out on his knee, tempting me. “There’s no point in starving yourself.”

I leave my eyes locked on his. Unwavering. Unblinking. I want to know why he has me. I want to know when I can leave, if I can leave.

“I can see the questions floating in your eyes. You’re doing well not to voice them.”

Well? I’m doing well? I want to laugh. I want to scream. I want to spit in his face.

He picks up the cracker again. “I’m not sure what point you are trying to prove by not eating.” He sighs. “Maybe I should explain a few things to stop this stupidity. Maybe you have illusions that you might escape this, that it is temporary. Maybe you think that someone will come to your rescue.”

He leans forward, his face in mine. The scent of him invades me and I close my eyes for a moment before I start to tremble.

“You are here to be trained. You are here to learn obedience. You no longer belong to yourself. This is your future. This is your home. Obey me and your punishments will be minimal. Disobey, and you will learn the consequences. There is a camera trained on you at all times. You cannot escape. There is no point in trying. Now,” he leans back again, lifting the cracker once more, “open.”

And I do.

CHAPTER FIVE

MIA

I try to sleep. I lie down on the mattress and stare at the ceiling but my eyes refuse to shut. The blink of the red light taunts me. Is he watching? Is it just him or are there more?

The blanket offers little protection against the cold but at least it gives me some privacy to hide my nakedness. I wonder if he will take it from me when he realizes.

After a while, I give up on sleep and walk across to the spot in the corner where the chains dangle from the ceiling. Lowering myself to the ground, the coldness of the wall seeps through the blanket and into the skin of my back, but I can see the stars from here. I wish I had studied them. I wish I knew what each speck of light meant. I know there is a cross, a pot or a belt. But none of them form patterns in my head. To me, it merely looks as though someone has scattered them, thrown them like one might throw seeds on the dirt.

When I was little, I thought the night was God pulling a blanket across the sky. Tucking us in like children. The blanket had holes, tiny pinpricks that let the light of heaven shine through. I thought that was how he watched us at night. One of the stars would blink, temporarily lost to the darkness and that was when God peered through the crack. That was when He was watching.

But none of the stars blink.

I sing softly to myself, hoping the music will bring me comfort. But music and comfort have no place here. It sounds strange in the echo of the empty room. Too broken. Too woeful.

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