Mama holds me in her arms. “Shush… don’t cry, baby. Don’t cry. Everything will be alright. I promise you everything will be alright.”
One thing Mama has never been good at is keeping promises.
-
Everything comes in threes.
Three. That’s how many days I’ve been locked in this apartment. Three days and three nights. Time hangs heavy when every moment is haunted by the memory of Damien. The way he touched me. The way he left me needing more. The way I hate myself for all of it.
Three. That’s the number of times a woman enters each day, bearing a tray of food. I eat it, and she takes it away again. In the evening, she cleans the apartment, though there isn’t much to do. I don’t make a mess.
The woman never speaks, and I don’t ask questions. But I notice how her eyes avoid mine. I wonder why.
These short visits are the only human company I’ve had since Damien’s last visit.
Three. The number of nightmares I’ve had. One every night. I didn’t have nightmares in the cell, but now that I’m in the apartment, they’re back.
And for the first time, I start wondering if living in luxury is really enough. I’m not locked in a tiny damp room anymore. My new prison is nicer than the house of that murdered politician, Cole. My fridge is stocked with food and my walls are lined with books. I even have a balcony, and more potted plants than I know what to do with. But the door is locked, and I can’t get out.
At first, it’s a tiny pinprick of a thought that worms its waythrough what would otherwise be the closest to happiness I’ve ever been. Comfortable, well-rested and well-fed. I used to dread a lot of things, but now, I only dread him. And his absence.
But then, the thought becomes, little by little, an obsession.
I can’t get out.
And then, there’s the loneliness.
I spent so much time hoping for someone to stop me, to look me straight in the eye and say, “Enough,” but I never gave much thought to what would come after.
I guess what comes after is a tiny, dark cell, and a large, empty apartment. I feel lonelier than ever.
-
Yesterday morning, I stopped eating. When the quiet woman came in with a tray of pancakes, eggs, and bacon, I picked up my fork, prodded the stack of fluffy pancakes for a second, then placed it back down.
She returned twenty minutes later to find the tray pretty much untouched. She hesitated, then took it away.
Same with lunch. Roast chicken, green beans, potatoes. Chocolate cake for dessert. I never dreamed, in my old life, that I’d get the chance to eat anything so delicious.
But again, I couldn’t conjure up an appetite. I sent it away uneaten.
Dinner was crab cakes. I couldn’t bring myself even to nibble them. It made me nauseous.
And it continued all day today. I feel myself growing weaker,but I can’t eat. The loneliness crushes me.
I’m lying down on the couch, a book resting unopened beside me, my eyes glazed over with a deep kind of fatigue that has nothing to do with lack of sleep, when I hear the lock turn in the door.
Then it opens, and in walks Damien, holding a tray of food.
I try to sit up, but the room tilts around me. I sink back down into the comfortable couch.
My heart hammers as he nears me. I wonder if he’ll touch me again. Slip his hand under the hem of my dress, make me feel a pressure in my lower stomach I’ve only ever felt with him, or if he’ll do something else this time. Maybe edge his hand down to the place that throbs with need.
He walks toward me, sets down the tray, and sits beside me on the couch, his face absolutely impassive. His thigh brushes against mine, the heat of his body sending a sharp current through me. My body arches toward him, and even my mind wishes it had enough strength to go to him. I don’t even have the energy to be disgusted by my reaction.
But then he withdraws his leg, suddenly, as if I repulse him.
“I hear you’re not eating,” he says, his voice cold. “Why not?”
