“Today’s lesson is about removal of hope. The strongest slaves hold out for an idea of release, of rescue. That makes it infinitely harder for them to adjust to and enjoy life as a slave.” He picked up his pen.
I will never adjust to this. I will never enjoy this.
“Do you have hope, Kitten?”
“No.” Yes.
“Is there someone that you envision rescuing you?”
“No.” Brett.
“I’ve told you about this cell. About the ten pounds of concrete that surround each of your bars. About the fact that, should you somehow escape this cell, that you will still be locked in the basement, a windowless space whose door has four deadbolts. The closest house is a half-mile away. I live alone. Your screams don’t carry past this room. Your hope for escape, or for rescue, should be dead.”
“It is.” Brett will save me. He will look for me. He will find me.
“No...” He stood and walked in a small circle around me, my knees on the hard concrete, my hands on my thighs, my eyes closed. I was so tired. “I don’t believe it is. I believe you still have hope, Kitten.”
I didn’t know what that meant - his belief in my hope - but when he pulled my chin up and I stared into his eyes, I knew that it was bad. I knew I had failed another test.
My hardest day was not the first time I was raped. Or when I spent unknown hours handcuffed in my own defecation. Or when I was whipped. My hardest day was that one, when I lost my teeth. Four of them, molars taken out with a tool that looked like expensive pliers.
And the hardest part wasn’t the pain — it did exist, but he allowed me pills. The hardest part was when I was told the reason, Master stopping on his way out to deliver the news, my captured teeth in a Ziploc bag hanging from his hand. When I was told that it was for when the remains of my body were found.
“I’m sorry, Kitten. Your hope was keeping you too strong, making it too difficult. Later, you’ll understand, you’ll appreciate this.”
I did actually, some time later, appreciate it. Not for the loss of hope, but that he didn’t take a finger or toe to use to stage my death. The teeth hurt, but I wasn’t left with any deformities or outward scars. When I tested a smile at the dusty mirror above the sink, I looked normal. As normal as a girl in a basement cell could look. A girl who had a habitual black eye and split upper lip.
After he pulled my teeth, I struggled, through the haze of medication and pain, to speak, to ask intelligent questions. But he silenced me, laying a firm hand over my sore mouth, his lips coming down to my forehead with a soft press. “It’s only hard for a brief while,” he whispered against my hairline. “The quicker you let go, the better it will be.”
I had stilled, hating the weight of his hand, the heat of his breath, the brush of his lips. Had fallen into the role of dutiful slave, the one who pleased him, the one who limited the level of contact that was needed. I laid still, the fight going out of my features, my muscles falling limp, my questions disappearing, replaced by the simple thought that Iwillneverletgo. A tear leaked down my cheek when I closed my eyes, and I breathed easier when he released my mouth, his lips leaving my forehead in one wet smack, the creak of his shoes heard when he stood. I lay in place, my jaw aching, more tears streaming, and repeated the mantra.
I would never let go.
I loved Brett, and he would keep looking.
I would never let go.
I loved Brett, and he would keep...
The medication took me away.