This is it. I'll finally see the face of the person I have been living with and fucking for months. The sadist who broke into my home, spied on me, stole my grandma's necklace, raped me over and over. The person who I wait for every day and miss when he doesn't visit. The person I fantasized about, not understanding the full repercussions of wanting a man like him. I'll see the face that houses those eyes, beautiful and evil.
I sit up, waiting, resisting the temptation to peek and perhaps cause him to rebel and mask himself again.
But just as I am convinced he will show me that we are something more than just a prisoner and a sick, twisted psycho, he bows his head down and pulls the mask over his face again.
I snarl as my expectations sink.
If he had just given me that, reached out to me a bit, I could believe that this morning was a mistake. A panic attack, food poisoning. But he has made it clear with that small gesture that all I am is his fuckhole.
He stands up, straightens out the chair, and heads to the bathroom to inspect the damage to the door. That's just a few seconds. On his way out, he grabs the used plates and utensils.
Night kicks the door open with his foot, and before leaving, he turns and give me one final look. I can't read it. I'm conversational in his language, but not fluent. Maybe I could be if he’d let me see more than his lips and eyes. But I can feel it’s a new look. One laced with disappointment, perhaps regret. Though those aren't words in his vernacular, so I must be projecting.
When he leaves, I throw myself back on the bed. Just like him, I run my hands over my face and through my hair trying to understand how a morning that had started out so quiet, had dissolved into a hurricane of chaos. I'm losing my mind, I think. And he won't help me keep it. This fucking newspaper, designed to taunt me, to remind me no one cares, is not enough.
I don't care how many times he shakes his head. I know what happened. And that sickness I felt after I ate his food was real.
So I do what a person in my position, someone who is weak and left with nothing but an empty room, the clothes on her back and her body does in protest. I guess I should be grateful to him, he's trained me to endure a physical agony I never imagined. If he wants me dead so be it, but it won't be quick. If he doesn't, well then he's going to have to listen to my fucking demands. If anyone is going to kill me, it'll be me.
Today marks day one of my hunger strike.
I think Sam was angry at me at first. He didn't come back for two days. Punishment I suppose. No food or fresh water. I was annoyed because a hunger strike only works if your captor tries to actually feed you. The hunger was sharp, but nothing like what I experienced down in that basement. On day three, he left breakfast for me. When he came back in the evening and it was untouched, he petulantly grabbed the tray and stormed out, leaving me alone.
I still feel sick. Whatever he put in my food, it hasn't worn off. Usually, I'm fast asleep when he brings my food in, but this morning, I've woken up feeling ill and am dry heaving over the makeshift toilet as he comes in.
I swing the door closed for privacy, but once he sets down the tray, he pushes the door open. He always has to counter any act of independence. I pretend I'm just washing up. I don't look at him. I don't say anything. I simply sit on my bed and stare at the sun through the skylight.
Night gets my attention when he pulls out a pad and paper. My heart almost screams with joy. I'm supposed to be mad at him or at the very least indifferent. So I pretend to be unimpressed by the first signs of possible non-sadistic interaction.
He quickly scribbles something on a pad and holds it up.
I didn't poison you.
He had to have.
I scoff. “Well, I don't believe you.”
He huffs and scribbles again.
You're no good to me sick.
How romantic. “Yeah, well maybe you wanted me dead, but I wizened up and threw up the crap you gave me. And I won't eat your food again. I'd rather starve to death.”
You're losing your grip on reality.
When I read that “concerned” note, I start to laugh. At first it's an ironic giggle, but the more I think about the hypocrisy in that statement, I start to laugh hysterically. I'm not trying to piss him off or even mock him, but is he really claiming I'm the one who doesn't operate in reality?
He puffs his chest and stands up, circling away from me in frustration. I try to stop laughing. I am terrified, genuinely. But my body or mind has gone rogue and the laughter won't stop.
“You—” I laugh again. “Put me here—I haven't had a two-sided conversation in months. Or read a book. Or watched TV. One minute you won't speak, the next you're asking me how my pussy feels. If I am losing my mind, it's all your fault!” Like that, the switch flips from uncontrollable laughter to manic rage.
In one quick motion, he turns, grabs a piece of toast from the tray and holds me by the neck, smashing the food against my mouth.
“Eat!” he orders through gritted teeth.
I claw at his arm. My mouth hurts from the impact, and the little buttery crumbs that do reach my tongue are so tempting, but I purse my lips in defiance.