Page 149 of Captive Ruin

My thoughts turn to Juliette more often as the days go by. At first, I wondered why a woman would want out so badly that she’d take a knife to her own throat, but as I feel my spirit ebbing away and my joy of life waning, it becomes easier to understand.

She was married to Van Wyk for twelve years, and was ill for nine of them. I’ve known him for four months and we’ve been married nine weeks, yet I haven’t seen him since Christmas. The only reason I know he’s not dead is because he calls me, every day.

But I don’t answer. When he missed New Year’s, I sent him a text saying ‘In person or fuck off.’ How he can’t manage to find the time for a single visit is beyond me. I’m clearly not as important as his work. Or maybe he’s found another girl who thought her apartment locks were secure. A few weeks ago, the thought would’ve been devastating and sent me on a destructive spree of some sort, but now… I’m not sure I even care anymore.

My low moods aren’t lost on the others. Tony watches me warily. Even Jorge has started to talk to me. That should be cause for celebration, but when the first words he’s ever spoken to me are to ask if I’m all right, then I know I’m really not.

Linda asks me if I’m sleeping well, and when I tell her I haven’t in weeks, she gives me a bottle of Ambien. They do help, they knock me out, but I don’t like to take them every night. The rest of the time, I drink. I never used to drink, but there’s an extensive wine cellar, and tipsy helps with numb.

As the days trickle by, I begin pulling away from Lucy and Sierra. My sister brings her guilt into every conversation, and I don’t feel strong enough to support her and myself too. Sierra wants to hatch escape plans every time we talk, partly because I haven’t told her about the mafia side of things and the threat to Lucy. How can I? She thinks I have a ‘domineering husband’ that ‘isn’t treating me right.’ Then she remembers all the money, switches in mid-stream to ‘how bad can it be?’ and tells me to take a shopping trip.

I do. It’s my only outlet. It’s not even retail therapy, it’s just anywhere-but-here therapy, but I’ve bought so much crap I can’t even remember it all. Partly it was to see if Van Wyk would notice, though if he has, he hasn’t said anything. My sprees reinforce Tony’s view of me as a princess—he doesn’t even use the term anymore, just looks at me with an unreadable expression.

My existence grows ever duller, while I embrace numb. January bleeds into February, the weather gradually improves, and I start finding patches of crocuses and snowdrops on my many long walks around the perimeter fencing.

Valentines goes by. He calls me; I don’t answer. Why should I? We’re not in love.

It gets warm enough to start swimming again, and Tony even mentions it. But I don’t.

What’s the point?

Weeks later, I’m sitting in the sunroom in my favorite wicker chair with a glass of wine and my legs tucked underneath me, watching the moon out of the east window.

Linda’s voice rings down the hallway with a note of excitement I haven’t heard in a while, then quick footsteps approach me, but they’re too heavy to be hers. That must be Tony in a rush. Maybe something has happened, but it won’t be anything interesting. Not around here.

The door opens, but it’s not Tony.

He’s two paces into the room before his eyes find me, and he stops. He looks at me, I look at him, and I feel… nothing.

“You’re back,” I say, taking a big swallow of my wine and returning my gaze to the silvery orb against the indigo sky. I know I should be feeling something, but I don’t. He’s back, and I wanted him back—at one point. Now? I can’t bring myself to care. He’s only going to leave again. Leave me trapped here, with nothing to do and nowhere to go, again. There’s no point mustering excitement, and I’m not sure I could even if I wanted to.

“Yes.” He takes a step toward me. “I… missed you.”

I say nothing. For a while, I missed him too, but I’m over that now. I’m waiting for him to explain he’s here for one night, and then he’ll be gone again. I know what he wants, what he’s going to take—me. He’s just here for a quick fix before leaving again. Maybe he doesn’t have other women on the side. Or maybe it’s one in every city, and I’m the lucky New York girl.

I try to find some anger or jealousy at the thought, but all I get is… hollowness. Deep, resounding, crippling.

“I’m sorry I was gone so long,” he says, coming closer.

I set my glass down, then draw my legs up and hug them to my chest.

“But I’m back now,” he adds.

Until he isn’t.

“Have you eaten?” I ask, my voice wooden in my own ears. “I think there are leftovers.”

He stands next to me, close enough to touch. “Food isn’t what I’m hungry for.”

“There’s some wine—”

“You don’t need to push, Little Stray.” He cuts across me but his voice is soft. “You know what I’m hungry for.”

I wasn’t pushing. I don’t care enough to push.

He pulls me to my feet. I stand before him, looking at his throat, until his fingers come up beneath my chin, tilting my face to his. His eyes search mine, and I don’t know if he finds whatever he seeks. But he leans in for a kiss.

His stubble is longer than usual, like he’s been too busy to shave or has decided to grow a beard. It prickles my soft skin. His mouth teases mine open, his tongue probing for entry.