I expected Jack to do the usual: take away the TV or lock me in the bathroom or tie me to the bed as punishment for trying to escape again. He didn’t. He restocked the mini-fridge and said he’d be back soon. That was five days ago. I’m sitting cross-legged on the floor in front of the microwave, watching the mac ’n’ cheese ready meal spin in slow circles beneath an anaemic glow.
I’ve a new hatred now, and it doesn’t ebb or flow, it sits with me all day, every day. It consumes me, eating up my stomach like a ravenous parasite. This hatred isn’t just reserved for Jack, it’s for me too. I hate that I let him turn me against my family, praying on my insecurity that they didn’t love me like they love Ada. I hate that I let him manipulate me into agreeing to come to Wisteria and walking into a situation weaved from every woman’s nightmare. I hate that I had sex with him. I hate that I’ve failed every single escape attempt. I hate that I turned a gun on him and pulled the trigger. It’s true that you don’t know what you’re capable of until you’re pushed. I remember nights spent with Katie, Olivia and Ivy in our mildew-riddled student house which always smelled faintly of Pot Noodles, our laptops and coursework discarded in favour of our favourite procrastination game ‘Would you Rather’.
‘Would you rather lose your hearing or lose your sight?’
‘Would you rather burn to death or drown?’
‘Would you rather only be able to whisper or only be able to shout?’
‘Would you rather shoot your oldest friend to escape captivity or remain captive forever?’
If you’d asked me that in the comfort of my student home, where doors were things you could move through freely and a walk to the shops was a severely underappreciated privilege, I’d have picked the latter. Every. Time. But how can you ever truly know yourself, know what you’re willing to do, until it’s a reality and not a rhetorical?
Seefer meows loudly and thrusts her head into my lap, purring before I’ve even touched her. I rub beneath her chin and feel love for this cat pour out of me, breaking through the surface of my hatred. She has a tray in the corner of the room and I’m down to the last of the grey pebbly litter. When Jack’s gone this long, I’m grateful he provides sealable bags for me to clean it out with until he comes back and takes them away. Seefer is restless. She can’t manage more than a week without being let out of the basement; I feel guilty. I give her one too many treats every day to make up for it.
Now, she meows loudly and rolls onto her back. This is a trick. She looks like she wants a belly rub but the second I go in for one, she’ll attack my hand.
‘I’m sorry you’re stuck down here too,’ I whisper, tickling her furry little cheek.
Bored of my affection, Seefer struts past her cat bed and leaps effortlessly onto mine before curling up like a little pretzel in her favourite spot.
I go back to staring at the microwave, focusing on the small crack in its glass front. I remember the rage and power I felt when I destroyed this room. My arms shook with the effort of lifting the microwave up and smashing it down. It didn’t break though. I can’t imagine having energy like that ever again. Jack replaced the chest of drawers with a shelving unit complete with soft storage cubes. Minimal nails. Minimal risk. If Ada were in my place, I bet she’d pull off the perfect escape first time. These thoughts used to be chased with a shot of bitterness, but not this time. Instead, I feel that little-sister longing to learn from her.
The microwave pings. I retrieve my meal and take one of the disposable plastic spoons Jack has provided. The food is beige and smells like cheesy feet. I think maybe Jack leaves me with terrible ready meals so I am mouth-wateringly keen whenever he comes back to Wisteria and cooks for us. I’ve barely forced a forkful of mush past my lips when the basement door opens. Jack is humming. He’s in a good mood. Seefer hops down from the bed and dashes up the stairs and out through the open door. Jack is definitely in a good mood because he doesn’t call her a fleabag as she passes. Instead, he continues humming as he locks the door behind her and bounces down the stairs. These days, he pauses, just for a second, to check I haven’t littered them with sharp foot-piercing objects.
He holds up a carrier bag. ‘Got you some goodies.’
‘A spare key to my prison?’ This belch of sarcasm surprises me – I guess now I’m no longer play-acting I can be as scornful as I’d like.
Jack’s good mood is an impenetrable bubble though because he just smiles and shakes his head. ‘Afraid not. How about this?’ He delves into the bag and produces a Terry’s Chocolate Orange before tossing it to me.
I catch it one-handed. ‘Not exactly free movement but I’ll take it.’
He stands over me. I’m suddenly hyper-aware that I’m sitting down on the floor, the top of my head just level with his groin. Abandoning dinner, I get to my feet as nonchalantly as possible and wander over to the bedside table, keeping him firmly in my peripheral vision, the same way you might a rabid animal.
Leaning back against the table, I fold my arms. ‘If you’re here to ask for a second date, you can just go ahead and hold your breath until I say yes.’
A smile tugs at his lips.
I glare.
‘Actually,’ he begins, ‘I’m here to show you something.’ He produces his phone from his pocket. My eyes light up. Even though he knows there’s no signal down here, he never brings his phone into the basement. When I was allowed upstairs, he kept it locked away, along with all the kitchen knives. Just in case. He pauses. Looks up. There’s something dark and hard behind his eyes which sends a quiver of unease through me. ‘I’ve had a lot of time to think and I know how to fix the hostility between us.’
‘Let me go? Turn yourself in to the police?’
Ignoring my deadpan suggestions, he continues, ‘You have no respect for your own well-being. You almost got yourself killed on that road. You don’t value your life and then, when those people pulled up to help us and I told you what I’d do to them if you tried anything, you finally listened to me.’
I’m irritated and impatient. ‘What’s your point, Jack?’
‘Motivation. You’re lacking it. If you’re motivated to try with me, you’ll succeed. You’re just not trying hard enough. So, I paid a visit to your sister.’ He pulls up a video on his phone. The camera work is shaky, the picture is grainy. It’s dark. There’s a floor shot. Boots treading carefully up a flight of stairs. A door being pushed open. A bed comes into focus. I recognise it before I see my sister’s sleeping form. He zooms in on her face. Her brow is furrowed, like she’s having a bad dream. Leisurely, the camera drifts down the length of her body, pausing briefly on the loose shoulder strap of her silk cami before lingering on her bare legs, the sheets twisted between them. Then the camera swings right; Jack’s gloved-hand appears in shot, placing two rings on her nightstand before turning back to Ada. She’s still sleeping, one arm slung above her head. He reaches out and lightly strokes her cheek.
Jack clicks off the video.
My breaths come in short, sharp bursts as irritation gives way to fear.
‘If you don’t start trying,’ warns Jack, ‘really trying, maybe it’ll be your sister who’s found on the side of the road.’