“Good morning, pretty girl,” he says, grabbing the metal chair and dragging it over beside the mattress, sitting down in it. He glances around, picking up the piroshki from where it lays on the mattress. “You do not want the food I made for you?”
“I’d rather have peanut butter and jelly.”
He ignores that, unwrapping the piroshki and tearing it in half—a yeast roll stuffed with something, I don’t know, but it smells so good that my stomach again clenches. “Cheese and potato, just as I remember you like it… no onion. Never onion.”
He holds half out to me and I take it but don’t eat it, despite the fact that my body is begging for calories. He can remember that I hate onions, but he can never seem to remember that I hate him.
“What did you do?” I ask, my voice trembling around those words. “Tell me you haven’t hurt her… tell me she’s okay, that you wouldn’t really…”
I can’t even bring myself to say it.
He takes a bite of the half of the piroshki he kept, chewing slowly as he regards me, before he motions toward where I’m sitting. “Are you enjoying your mattress?”
“I told you I didn’t want it. I never asked for it.”
“Oh, but you did,” he says, continuing to eat. “Do you not remember? You begged me for it.”
“I didn’t.”
I wouldn’t.
There’s no way I would beg.
“You did,” he says again. “You said you were sorry, that you would be a good girl, that you would love me right… and you did. As soon as I had the mattress brought in, you showed me how grateful you were for my generosity.”
Tears sting my eyes. “You’re lying.”
A smile plays on his lips as he looks at me, eyes carefully scanning my face, before he says, “I can bring you the video, if you would like to watch.”
I shake my head. “I don’t believe you.”
“You do not have to,” he says, shrugging nonchalantly, “but it is true. You were so wet for me when we made love. I can still smell us in here… can you?”
Bile burns my throat, and I try to swallow it back, but it’s rushing through me too fast. Hunching over, I dry heave, gagging over the side of the mattress.
Before I realize what he’s doing, he’s crouching down in front of me, his piroshki long forgotten as he smoothes my hair, like he’s trying to console me. He grabs the chain around my neck, tugging on it as he pulls out the keys. I watch him warily as he unlocks it, unwinding the chain and letting it drop away.
“Come on,” he says, meeting my gaze. “We need to get you washed up.”
“Why?” I ask quietly. “What’s the point?”
“You do not want to be dirty for the party, do you?”
“Party? What party?”
“Your coming home party,” he says as he raises an eyebrow. “You did not think I would make the guest of honor miss her own celebration, did you?”
“But—”
Before I can finish my thought, his hand clamps down around my mouth, covering it, silencing me, as his other hand settles on the back of my head, pulling me closer. “I do not want to ruin the surprise, pretty girl, but I think you will be quite pleased with what I have planned. You remember how much fun we had at your Sweet Sixteen?”
My eyes widen, and I struggle against his grip, reaching up and grabbing his hands, trying to pry them away as I scream into his palm.
“Shhh, none of that,” he says. “You have to be a good girl, like you showed me you can be, and when it is all over, I will answer your question about what I did with our daughter.”
He gives me time to calm down before letting go and standing back up. He offers me his hand then, extending it toward me. For a moment, I hesitate, just staring at it, before carefully reaching out, letting him pull me to my feet. My legs are weak, my knees nearly buckling. I look down, as he tightly grips my hand, seeing the bruises covering me—some old, some new, a kaleidoscope of purple and yellow, black and blue with subtle green hues, a splattering of blood like dark red paint.
I’m a fucked up rainbow.
I don’t fight it. I don’t fight him as he hooks up the hose and washes me. I don’t make a peep, even when it stings, even when it burns, even when his hands are rough against a bruise or he gets soap in a scrape. The water is ice cold, and my teeth chatter, but I otherwise remain still, letting him do what he’s going to do, the thought of getting out of this basement too tempting to ruin.
He wraps me in a towel once I’m clean, pushing me toward the metal chair, forcing me down into it. His hands are on my shoulders as he leans down to whisper, “Do not move from this chair.”
Kassian leaves the basement.
It would be a lie to say I don’t consider trying to run, but running, in my current state, is sort of out of the question. I could do it, sure, but I wouldn’t make it far, maybe not even to the top of the stairs this time before I got caught. So I sit still, doing exactly what he told me to do, until the basement door opens again.
It’s not him, though.
It’s Alexis.
She descends the stairs slowly, carrying a small black bag, setting it down beside me. “He, uh… he told me to help you get ready?”
She poses it like a question, like maybe she doesn’t really understand any of this, either. My gaze flickers to the bag, and I reach down, unzipping it to sort through the contents—hairbrush, makeup, clothing. I pull out the skimpy fabric, eyeing the see-through black lingerie, the lacy garter belt and thigh-highs to go along with it. I don’t even have to look back into the bag to know there will be a pair of red six-inch heels to go with the outfit, and somewhere, mixed in among the makeup will be a tube of bright red lipstick.
He has a type, remember?
I ignore her, getting dressed on my own, lifting up just enough to slip the lingerie on. The brush keeps getting tangled in my hair, so I yank it, pulling out knots without any care. There isn’t much I can do with it myself, since I don’t have a mirror, so I don’t object when Alexis jumps in and takes over. She does what she can… what that is, I don’t know. Doesn’t really matter, either. Kassian’s hands will end up all through it later, gripping handfuls.
Whether he’ll be doing it out of pleasure or anger is anyone’s guess at the moment.
Alexis kneels in front of me, pulling out the makeup, going to work as she slathers foundation all over my face. Eye shadow, eyeliner, mascara—all black, just the way Kassian likes it. When that is finished, she grabs the red lipstick, but I snatch it from her hand, shaking my head as I throw it across the room.
I’m not wearing it for him.
She frowns, not moving from her kneeling position. “Where is he taking you? Do you know?”
“Home,” I whisper.
The word sounds wrong. So wrong.
That place isn’t my home.
Never has been, never will be.
Her eyes widen, panic flickering across her face. “He’s taking you to the party?”
“He says it’s for me,” I say. “My own little homecoming parade before the big game.”
“Oh God,” she whispers, her eyes darting all around. “No, no, no… ugh, this isn’t how it’s supposed to happen.”
My brow furrows. “What?”
“You’re supposed to be here,” she says. “This is where he’s coming. This is where he thinks he’ll find you.”
“Who?”