A bird on the skylight above my bed awakens me. I didn't notice it yesterday. I'll still get sunlight. That was thoughtful of him. I watch the bird attack the glass for no ostensible reason. “Keep trying bird, you'll see there's no point,” I groan aloud.
If I don't look down, or move from the bed, with the white walls and sunny skylight, this almost feels like a vacation in the woods. But the soreness between my legs, on my neck and wrists; the aching muscles and tender spots from when he slammed me against the wall, they are a reminder that these moments are an illusion.
I used to wake up with a day full of chores, constantly feeling overwhelmed. Now, I lie in wait for Night. There are no monotonous tasks, no mundane errands. My survival rests on the most basic acts here. Choosing to eat, sleep, bathe—everything is a delicate balance in this power struggle.
At first, I forced myself not to think about Johnny. It hurt too much to think about how he was coping, what I was missing. But lately, days go by before he comes to mind. Survival doesn’t allow for excess or luxuries. All my energy must focus on the present. But when Johnny does sneak in, it still hurts, not just because I miss him, but because of the guilt I feel in becoming used to a world without him. I wonder if I am becoming my mother, and it scares me, so even in those increasingly infrequent moments when I allow myself to recall Johnny, I have to force him away.
On this morning, when if I squint a certain way things can almost look normal, I feel him, the memories of him, trying to force their way to the surface. I sit up, the sudden movement a way to distract myself, and cry out as soon as I see the balaclava-clad face. He's just sitting there, in the corner of the room in that perfectly void silence he has mastered. I don't know how long he's been watching me.
“Oh fuck!” I scream, catching my breath. You'd think by now, nothing would startle me, but this shit never gets old. “You scared the shit out of me!” I say, like he's an old friend, like he cares, like his intentions were anything but to frighten me, hoping that if I act familiar with him, he'll see me as a person and not just a toy for his sick pleasures.
I brush a wild lock of hair away, and my heart slows a bit as I lock into his blinking eyes peeking through his mask.
I know what he's here for. I think the cat and mouse game stopped yesterday. Instinctively, I cross my legs under the blanket, the one I earned through oral sex days ago.
“How long have you been there?” I ask. It's pointless, but when you have no one to talk to, you try.
He points to a tray that he must have carried in. On it is fruit, water, and a few hard-boiled eggs. I'm hungry, but he keeps me fed enough now so that I don't act like a stray around food.
“Thanks,” I say begrudgingly.
He stands up, and my breath hitches. We may not use money, but nothing here is free. I notice he's dressed well today. At least compared to his t-shirt and torn jeans. Today, he's wearing a buttoned down shirt, with a fresh pair of jeans and boots.
“You look nice,” I add, trying to ingratiate him though the words taste like sour milk on my tongue.
He doesn't respond. Instead, he unbuttons his shirt as he stands over me, those eyes paralyzing me into submission. He rests the shirt gently on the weathered wooden chair behind him, revealing just a white tank underneath, his muscles suggesting his physical domination over me.
His heavy boots clunk loudly against the wooden floor as he slowly strides towards me. I know he does this on purpose. He uses every tool, including sound, to create the ambiance he wants. He is capable of becoming a ghost when he likes.
But today, he wants me to recognize the tension of each step. There are only three needed in this small space before he is standing beside me. He whips off the cover and I gasp. I'm so used to being nude, that I forget I am still covered in the little pink nightie he gave me. He reaches down, softly guiding his hand along my cheekbone and then sharply gripping it to turn my eyes up. His other finger runs along the fresh scrapes on my neck. Then at the neckline of the dress.
He's already hard as he does this, the bulge in his pants taunting just inches from my face.
He pulls a little on the neckline to show me something. Blood. One of my cuts must have bled in my sleep. I don't know all the rules and if that's going to upset him enough to cause some kind of punishment, but he seems to move past it for now, letting the dress fall back against my skin.
In a sudden burst, he reaches for my ankles, turning and pulling me to the edge of the bed. I pant, as he meets me on his knees, positioned between my thighs.
“I'm sorry. I didn't know I was bleeding.”
He doesn't heed my words as he pushes up the hem, running his fingers up and down my lips, triggering me to squirm in a mixture of arousal and discomfort. I told myself I had to hide the old me to get through this, but she claws to the surface. She won't let me completely lose myself in the moment yet.
He takes his rough hands and clamps them down on my thighs, his disciplinary glare saying it all.
I nod.
“How does your pussy feel?” he asks.
“Umm…do you want my honest answer?”