The plate of food on the coffee table in my living room. The table I use for eating, on the rare occasions that I eat.
There are eggs, bacon and a slice of buttered toast. Next to the plate, a note with a single word, written in red marker:
Eat.
Through the cracked-open door leading into the kitchen, I spot my frying pan, drying on the rack next to the sink.
While I was lying on the forest floor, a sobbing, bleeding mess, Damien was in my house, cooking me breakfast.
The dissonance of it takes my breath away. A feeble wave of anger rises in my throat. If I weren’t so broken, I’d be furious. He doesn’t even have enough respect for me to kill me swiftly. He draws it out, humiliates me. I wish I had the strength to fight him.
But I don’t. Fear, not of him, not really, but of more pain, takes the fore. I’ve never been scared by the threat of physical pain before. But right now, I’m terrified.
So I obey. Kneeling in front of the table, because sitting would hurt far too much, I gingerly take the fork set beside the plate, and begin to shovel the food into my mouth.
It makes me nauseous, first the smell and then the taste, and my stomach isn’t used to eating so much anymore. But I force it down, not daring to leave even a morsel on the plate. When I’m finished, I breathe a sigh of relief, and stumble up and toward the bedroom. But before I can reach it, a second wave of nausea overtakes me, this one far greater, and I rush to the bathroom, where I promptly vomit all the contents of my stomach.
Fuck.I am in deep shit. He must have seen the whole thing, either because he’s still in the house somewhere, or because he got cameras installed. Probably the latter; I doubt he would stay a minute longer here than necessary. But I no longer have the strength even to be scared. I feel ill, exhausted, and my body iswracked with pain. All I can think of is sleep.
I barely notice the thick blanket on the bed, or the disinfectant and cream on the night table, with the pile of sterile compresses beside them. The note propped on top of the tub of cream, with its threatening order:Treat, blurs before my eyes, and before I can even think of following those instructions, I’ve sunken into a deep sleep.
__
I don’t know how long I sleep, dead to the world, but I’m startled awake by the feel of something cool on my upper thighs. Seized with panic, I struggle against the hand that pins me down. But it doesn’t seem bothered by my resistance. It simply pins me down harder, its hold like iron, and a voice rumbles in my ear, “Enough.”
Fear battles it out with anger, and the wave of bitter, crushing fury comes out on top. What is he doing to me now? What have I done to deserve this humiliation?
The pain that racks my body keeps me helpless, even as my mind seethes.
It takes me a moment to realize Damien isn’t doing anything but treating my wounds. The coolness is the disinfectant that he’s dabbing me with liberally, on my thighs, my bottom, my lower back. Then he coats my skin thickly with the cream, and I exhale slowly as the pain subsides.
Behind me, I can feel him continuing to apply his treatment tersely, and he seems to be on the verge of speaking several times. This hesitation is very unlike him. I’m even more surprised when he grunts, “I didn’t mean to hurt you so badly.”
I couldn’t speak even if I wanted to, and right now I’mincapable of moving either. That’s probably a good thing, because if I weren’t so incapacitated, I’d spit in his face. Kick him, punch him, bloody that beautiful body of his.
The words that leave his mouth are bullshit. Pure bullshit. They sound true, but I know better. They’re meant to fuck with my mind, to make me doubt myself, make me doubt everything. That’s how it’s been ever since the first time I laid eyes on him and stabbed him with a stapler. When he stripped me and locked me in the cell and soothed me, and somehow succeeded in playing the part, not of my captor, but of my savior.
I wish I had the strength to stab him with a stapler now.Better yet, with a fucking knife.
But I’m far too weak. Physically, but also mentally. The fury dissolves, and all I can do is succumb to the feel of his hands on my body, even though I know it means nothing.
He finishes treating my wounds, and gently, far too gently, flits my shirt down. I realize that he’s left his shirt on me, and I’m thankful for it, because I don’t know what I’d do without it. The scent of him that still clings to it helps me sleep.
His hands leave my body and tuck me in, under a thick wool comforter. A new blanket. He nearly beat me to death and brought me a new blanket. What the fuck.
Even though the comforter is thick and warm, I can’t seem to stop shaking.
The pain in my backside has subsided, but the pain that wracks my body is only getting worse. My hands feel clammy, my throat is parched, my head throbs. I feel achy all over, and my stomach is roiling with nausea.
By now, Damien is standing up. I hear him leave the room quietly. I wonder if he’ll leave me alone for now. I can’t decide if that thought makes me relieved or upset. But a moment later, I hear the clinking of a frying pan, and then, the smell of cooking food.
Oh, fuck. I can’t eat. I literally can’t. I just can’t.
In spite of everything, I doze off again, waking up only when he enters the room once more and sets down a plate of food gruffly.
It’s spaghetti and meatballs. My stomach practically hurls at the sight of it.
“Eat,” he orders.
