My vision tunnels, the poison must be doing its handiwork and I only pray that I threw up enough to halt its progress. I try to calm my breathing but my chest only tightens a bit more every time I suck in air.
Then I nearly stop breathing all together when I hear his footsteps in the main room. Without thinking, I scramble on all fours and reach for the razor. A paltry weapon, but it's my only option. I thrust myself at the bathroom door just as he tries to push it open.
“Go away!” I cry. Using all the strength in my legs to push against him.
He pounds on the door, each thud making my heart bang against my chest.
“Fuck you!” I shout, through sobbing and hyperventilation.
He begins his campaign against my barricade, pushing the door steadily. My heels burn as they desperately scrape against the floor. But he's too strong and he manages to open it enough to stick his body halfway through.
“Nooo!” I scream, turning onto my knees and lunging at the door, pushing it hard against his body. He grunts, and pushes the door back in one explosive motion, sending me and the door flying back. The door comes swinging back towards him and he pushes back at it again, this time so forcefully that it cracks and splinters. Facing him and on my ass, I push myself away from him, against the opposite wall. It never get less frightening: a strong, masked, man heaving over me. As anonymous and soulless as any monster in a campfire story. All I can do is brace myself against it.
Night grabs me by my shoulders and pulls me up.
“You son of a bitch!” I shout, flailing the razor at him. I get maybe a swipe and a half before he grabs my wrist and pries it out of my hand. He throws the razor against the wall, and it bounces a few times before resting by his feet.
“You're trying to kill me!” I shout. “You're trying to kill me!” Everything is slipping away. I feel myself growing weak. “I hate you!”
I use every bit of energy I have left to kick and wrangle myself out of his grip. I'm well fed now, and stronger than when he had me starving and living in my own filth, even with his poison inside of me.
“You promised you would take care of me if I was good!” I scream. “I've been good!”
I've barely even looked at him thus far, overwhelmed with panic and the sensation of dying, but at that point I notice his frustration. His lips puckering as if he's fighting the urge to say something. His eyes wide and glazed in a way I have never seen.
With no weapons, and rendered almost incapacitated in his grip, I butt him right in the nose with my forehead.
“Fuck!” he says, letting go of me to grab his nose.
I manage to pull the bathroom door open and get to the main door, but he pulls me back by the pretty little nightgown he gave me. Both his arms wrap me as I leave the ground and slam down onto the bed. The joints creak and crack under the force, and I am breathless despite the padded surface taking much of the impact.
I start screaming as loud as I can, choking on the force of it.
Night rears his arm back and slaps me. Hard. So hard everything, including me, goes silent.
He grabs my shoulders and shakes me. Like someone trying to get someone's attention. His eyes are fiery but huge, pleading.
I've learned to read him, his eyes and gestures a language of their own. He's trying to get me to just calm down and look at him.
I grab my cheek, flaming hot and pulsing from the slap and begin to wail. He's never hit me before. It's one of the reasons I guess I trusted him or believed him. I know, it's ridiculous considering all he has done, but the cuts, the bruises from the bindings, those were all unintended consequences, or so I thought. But this slap, I've never been hit like that in my entire life. And it works, to an extent, to get me out of the complete spiral I was being sucked into.
He shakes me again, less forcefully, and I open my eyes, still holding my cheek.
He shakes his head. Over and over again. No.
No what? You're not trying to kill me? You didn't just try to poison me? No—don't you scream again or I will hurt you?
But I don't ask. I don't want answers. I don't want to talk, I just want to keep believing he's poisoning me.
He stays on top of me. Both of us still panting from the wrestling and screaming. And he does so until the poison wears off, my vision clears, my breathing slows.
When he's confident that I won't run or go apeshit again, he slowly slides off of me. Night keeps his eyes on me the entire time as he backs away and plops himself on his seat. He turns it to face the corner, like a punished child, bows his head and pulls off his mask. With a great sigh, he runs his hands through his wavy light brown locks and then buries his hands in his face.