Page 13 of Cruel Beginnings

The mattress is on a solid iron frame which is bolted to the floor, and there’s a thin blanket crumpled up on it. My ankle chain is bolted to the floor next to the bed, and it’s only a few feet long.

I stand on shaky legs, look around, then pat my body. I’m wearing my cocktail dress from yesterday, and I still have my underpants on, but my feet are bare.

It’s a strange thought to have, but my mind is working a mile a minute. What do I do? WhatcanI do?

Nothing.

This really is a prison cell. Joshua Smith has a prison cell, and I’m chained up in it. Someone designed this prison cell and built it for him, or he built it himself…which means he uses it on a regular basis. I swallow the urge to scream. I stumble over to the toilet, lift my dress, squat, and pee.

“Did you get an eyeful there, Joshua?” I yell at the camera.

Then my courage evaporates, and I stumble over to the bed and sit there for what feels like an eternity, growing more and more frightened and miserable. Horrible images of what Joshua might do to me crowd into my mind, no matter how hard I try to push them aside.

I take deep breaths and let them out very slowly. Panicking won’t help anything. It never helps. I’ve been in scary situations before, and I survived by forcing myself to stay calm and think clearly. My stepfather breaking down my door when I tried to lock it… Being followed home from work late at night and having to run for my life… A stocking-masked man coming into the burger joint where I worked at two a.m. with a pistol pointing at my face as I quickly emptied the register and prayed not to die…

Sarah, help me, I cry out in my head.I’m so scared. I’m so lonely. Be with me now. Help me die the right way.I summon up her round, plain, smiling face, the way I always do when I’m feeling low. Not my mother’s face—that would be too painful.

I don’t think I’m going to survive this, but I want at least to go out on my own terms.

Great, you’re making a plan for dying.

I will keep from crying or begging as long as I can.

I will spit in Joshua’s face at least once.

I will do my very best to draw blood.

I won’t blame myself for anything that he makes me say or do while he’s torturing me.

“That’s my girl!”Sarah says to me in my head. Imaginary Sarah is beaming at me with approval. The evil voice tries to talk, from the oily black swirl of smoke it inhabits, but Sarah slides in front of it and tells it to get lost, and it does.

Finally, the door swings open, and I stifle a yelp of fear.

A woman walks in. Not Joshua.

She’s maybe in her thirties, dishwater-blonde hair scraped back in a severe bun. She’s wearing slacks, sneakers, and a boxy T-shirt, severe sensible clothes that play down any femininity. There are furrows in her forehead that I think make her look older than she is.

I feel an instant flash of recognition when I look into her eyes. People who’ve been abused, we can often spot fellow victims. She’s got that wary, defensive way of carrying herself. She’s suffered horrors. I can see it in the grim set of her jaw. Her brown eyes look hard and pitiless, but maybe she’ll take pity on me. One victim to another.

I shrink in on myself, trying to look as small and unthreatening as possible.

“Please help me,” I beg her. “Please let me out of here.”

She frowns disapprovingly and shakes her head, and I feel fury bubbling up inside me. How could she do this to another woman? How could she help him? But I hide my emotions and make my voice sound timid and weak.

“Please,” I beg her. “I just want to go home. I won’t tell anyone anything, I swear.”

She reaches the bed, and I see she’s got handcuffs dangling from her hand, and a cloth hood. Horror pools in my belly.

“How can you do this?” I cry out. “How can you help him keep a woman prisoner?”

She opens her mouth, and I nearly faint from horror and disgust. She’s got a mangled stump where her tongue should be.

She grins fiercely at my look of shock. Dear God, what did Joshua do to her? It’s clearly driven her mad.

Defeated, I sit there and let her put the hood on me. Swiftly, she cuffs my hands behind my back. Then she releases the ankle cuff and grabs me by the arm. I shudder at her touch but let her lead me out of the room.

I count the steps, in case it helps. Fifty stumbling steps down the hall. Then, on the left, a flight of stairs, twenty of them. Then through a doorway.

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