The door flies open. “Dammit Sam. What's this mess? I told you to leave your mother alone. She needs rest.”
“He can stay here with me.”
“And watch you cry all day? No, Gloria, rest and when you can manage to stay out of bed for more than five minutes at a time, you can rejoin the world.”
“You're so cruel,” she cries.
“Here we go again. The world is cruel. Everyone hates you. You're turning him into you and I won't have it.”
“You hate me,” she cries.
“Don't pull that,” dad says. “I'm here, aren't I?”
“You only care about money. That's all you care about!”
“Oh for Christ’s sake, you're a mess.”
Dad yanks me by the shoulders and pulls me out of the room, closing the door to the sound of her cries.
He crouches down to me. “You wanna be like that?” he asks, pointing at their bedroom door.
I don't know what to say. She is the only person who is nice to me. But no one wants to be locked alone in a room all day. Saying no feels like I'm turning on her.
“Well, trust me, you don't. So go wash up and do your homework.” He gives me a shove and a slap on the bum, sending me on my way.
“Christ this place is a mess,” he murmurs to himself, picking up the leftovers and addressing the spilt milk I left behind.
It's only been one nightfall since he last visited. During that nightfall, I had the best sleep I have had in as long as I can remember. With a full belly and wrapped in a cozy blanket, I watched as dusk turned to moonlight. The things the man did to me would flash in my mind, but the feeling it elicited was confounding. I didn't want to play with myself when he left, but my body sang for it. I meant it when I said stop, but I didn't think he would. He's my tormentor. My captor. My words shouldn't matter to him, and yet there are times when he seems to care about my needs. When he did stop, I realized I'm not sure I ever wanted him to. He started a physical cascade that needed to be realized. Now, my stomach knots at the thought of him spreading my legs, fondling my breasts, rubbing my body with his wet, soapy hands. But that sickening feeling, it links to something deeper—the feeling of my body tingling, betraying me, betraying what I know is right.
That sense of the forbidden. The thing I sought when I'd close my eyes while Carter was inside of me. I'd imagine scenarios of doing the wrong thing. Letting a man who I had just met take me without asking. That secret, it's what allowed me to enjoy sex with my sweet Carter at all. Now that desire is still a secret, but it's a living one.
I loathe myself for thinking of my captor's torso, lean with muscle, glistening with beads of sweat. How his scent, distinctly his, ignited something animal in me. It lingered on me so that when I wrapped myself in the blanket, it rose to my nose as I drifted into a slumber.
Even in my dreams he stalked me—a nightmare mixed with a fantasy as he fucked me at knife point, and I woke up to my hand fondling myself again. I came. Again. Then I slept peacefully the rest of the night.
I disgust myself. My weak will. How I have traded sexual acts for food and fabric. I used to yearn to see my family again, but now I fear the day I see them. They won't be getting Vesp back. They'll be getting back a whore who played with herself after a masked stranger came on her face and chest.
Only weeks have passed and I find myself thinking more about this man than Carter. Carter's become a distant dream now. An idea of a person I will never see again. He's home. I can't even bring myself to think of Johnny. It hurts too much. My world now revolves around a person I don't know. Every basic need I have is at his whim. It's easier to think of him than the world I have left behind.
I listen to the man's footsteps upstairs. If only everyone else could have the privilege of hearing their god above them. I haven't had a real conversation in weeks and he only speaks to me to taunt me during sex. Still, I find myself now looking forward to his company, whatever it brings. He doesn't hurt me. Strike me. Torture me. He barters. He makes deals. Sometimes it feels like a game. I'll take anything to pass the days in this dim, damp prison. The solitude is just another torment.
When the door to the basement opens, all those feelings of peace I have with him fly out the window. I still don't trust him, and my fight or flight response always kicks in first. Only when I know the reasons for his visit can I put the panic at ease.
I come to my feet, the shackle at my ankle clanking. That area is always tender. I wonder if removing the shackle is up for negotiation.