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On the third day, I wake up, my heart lighter with my new resolution. For the first time since Damien left me handcuffed to the bed, I haven’t been haunted by a single image of what I did when I was fourteen years old.
I get up early, shower, and put on my nicest clothes. I decide to wear makeup because I know Damien doesn’t like it. Fuck him.
I brush out my hair until it’s perfectly bushy.
At last, I’m ready, and I stare at the door. It’s all very well to be determined, but I have no clue what to do now. So I wait.
10 a.m., 11 a.m., 12 p.m.
The hours pass, only punctuated by the quiet woman bringing in breakfast, lunch and dinner.
I need to do something else. Taunt him more. And then what? Let him punish me again? I don’t want that anymore. I don’t want him to touch me at all. Not because I don’t crave his touch—I do, with every fiber of my being—but because it would mean giving in. I’m done giving in.
But probably, he’s grown so indifferent he won’t come no matter how much I taunt him. And that would hurt more than any amount of giving in would.
However I look at it, there’s a risk. But I’m willing to take it. Anything is better than this inaction.
By the time the quiet woman returns in the evening to clean the apartment, I’m sitting on the floor, a razor beside me. The choice to hurt myself was borne from wanting to hurt him, but when I brought the razor down on my wrists I realized I was the one who wanted to suffer. There was a moment of euphoria as I sliced through the skin. But now, seeing the blood on my wrists, I’m seized with sudden panic.
Damien still scares me, I guess.
When the quiet woman knocks and then enters, it’s too late to hide. Anyway, I’m sure he’s seen it, if he’s looking. Then again, he’s probably not looking anymore, or he would certainly have done something about this, no matter how little he cares about me.
The quiet woman takes in what I’ve done at a glance, her eyes widening. Then she cries out, “Stop!”
The second she does, I inhale sharply.
I’ve heard that word before, spoken by that very same voice.
I forget about the razor, my wrists, even Damien, as I try to remember where. But I come up blank.
Still, when my eyes meet hers, I see by the pallor of her face that she’s aware of what I’m thinking. She sets down the tray quickly.
“I won’t tell anyone,” she breathes. “Please never do it again.”
I understand by her urgent voice that what she’s offering isn’t a favor. It’s a deal.
I won’t tell if you don’t.
She doesn’t realize I still have no idea who she is. Her voice is only vaguely familiar, and try as I might, I can’t recall where or when I heard it. But I don’t tell her that. As long as she believes I know, she won’t tell them about this.
And now that I’m staring down at my bloody wrists, I realize I would do anything to keep Damien from knowing.
Because the awful thing is that, no matter what, I can’t break that last thread of hope. I keep returning to it, clinging to it, even though I know that when it finally snaps, as it inevitably will, I will come crashing down. And I won’t be able to get up again.
I nod to show the quiet woman that I accept her deal, and she quickly leaves the room, returning moments later with cotton and antiseptic. She puts some ointment on the cotton then dabs it onmy wrists, before bandaging them.
Then she goes out, locking the door behind her. I’m left alone with my cuts, the mystery surrounding her already forgotten, obliterated by my crushing loneliness.
24
Damien
This used to be my favorite moment of the day. The five of us in Logan’s apartment, playing cards, swigging whiskey, just like in the old days, back before we had the weight of the entire state on our shoulders.
But these past few days have been utter torment. They held us for the full twenty-four hours before releasing us with the promise of a search warrant.
