What was happening to me?
He scooped up some more of the mac and cheese.
“What are you doing?” I said, my voice coming out strangled in self-pity. I hated how pathetic I sounded.
“I didn’t wash my hands. Who knows what kinda germs I’ve got. And it don’t seem like you’re particularly hungry so I’ll just go ahead and eat it myself.” He shoved the food into his mouth and I would have given anything to be his tongue or his teeth right then. To have that food in my mouth, sliding down my throat.
“Wait, no, please!” I begged before I could stop myself. “Just go wash up quickly and then feed me.”
I hated him.
But I hated myself more.
He glared and scooped another handful before shoving it in his mouth and then standing up so abruptly the chair fell down behind him.
“What did I tell you?” he said calmly, his tone cold and calculating.
I shook my head, too hungry to be scared of him. “I don’t know, you said a lot of things,” I replied tartly, wishing that I could cut my own stupid tongue off.
“I said this wasn’t a hotel. And in case you were uncertain, let me make this real fuckin’ clear for you one last time: this ain’t a hotel, and it ain’t a happy little home. You don’t tell me to fuckin’ wash up, woman. You take what I give you and you accept it like a grateful little bitch!” He leaned over me and I willed the bed beneath me to sink away from him. “I own you,” he growled darkly, black eyes staring into my soul like they could tear me in half.
My nostrils flared in defiance. “No man owns me.” I gritted my teeth because I’d rather starve to death than let him think that he did.
He laughed loudly, darkly, so much so that his laughter rumbled through my entire body, sending shivers of fear and something else—something I wasn’t ready to acknowledge yet—down my spine and straight to my core.
He scooped up the last of the food and sucked it off his fingers greedily and I whimpered. He leaned down abruptly, catching me by surprise, and pressed his mouth to mine. He didn’t try to pry my lips apart and kiss me. Instead he pressed his lips harder against my lips, to the point of pain, until I whimpered again. His hand cupped between my legs and I bucked against his unwanted touch until he finally released my mouth.
“I owneverypart of you, right up to me saying I’m done with you,” he growled, removing his hand and storming away from me.
I let out a heavy breath as the door slammed shut behind him, my chest heaving as I struggled to pull air into my lungs. My tongue involuntarily swiped out over my lips, lapping up the cheese sauce he’d left on them.
I stared at the closed door for thirty minutes, praying that he’d take pity on me and come back with some more food, but he never did. Instead, the slow beat of some rock music sang out from somewhere outside the house.
My stomach creased in hunger, the one mouthful not even nearly enough to quench the pains. I felt my chin tremble, but I bit down on my bottom lip to stop myself from crying. My shoulders ached something crazy from being in the same position for so long, and I shuffled on the bed to try and get some movement to them.
I wouldn’t break. I couldn’t.
I was a Benite, and we weren’t made of flesh and bone, we were made of ice and stone.
No man owned me, and no man would break me.
My daddy hadn’t, his brothers hadn’t, and this man wouldn’t either. I hoped.
If I died there, then I’d die headstrong and fierce.
*
The lights were off when I opened my eyes, the blackness almost suffocating as it surrounded me. I felt drowsy, sleepy, and weak, the unmistakable scent of pee in the air meaning I’d probably peed myself again while sleeping.
I was too tired, too hungry, and too sore to care, so I closed my eyes and sank back down into the pillow. I was almost back asleep when the sound of a Zippo lighter flicking open caught my attention.
I frowned and opened my eyes, seeing the man’s face lit up fleetingly as he lit a cigarette next to my bed. His mask wasn’t on, and I finally got to see the man behind the mask, if only briefly. My heart stuttered in my chest, fear and desire drenching me.
Sitting there, shrouded in darkness with a small flame of light spilling from the Zippo lighter and bathing his features in yellow, he reminded me of a fallen angel as dark shadows grew behind him until he was surrounded by them, with just the glow of the flame in front.
He was handsome. A man made from marble and cast out of hell. And yet he was equally terrifying. His eyes were downcast, and the strong scent of liquor and weed hung around him like a thunderstorm waiting on the brink.
I wasn’t sure whether to speak or not, so I decided to take in as much detail of him as possible. Surely, at some point, that might help Daddy work out who the man was. And once he knew who he was, he could work out how to make him pay. If I made it out of here alive.
