Page 8 of A Silence So Divine

My brows furrow and I signal the only thing I’m capable of.No, no, no.

I’m not sure how long he persists with the questions—minutes or mere seconds. Each one is punctuated by a prod into the soft flesh above my throat, but he doesn’t pierce the skin.

“Would you like some water?” The words are asked so nonchalantly that they give me pause. I search for any semblance of a hidden motive, but his expression has gone perfectly blank.

The apprehension in me wants to deny his offer, but I haven’t been able to quench my thirst in days.

His eyes bore into mine as I muster a meek nod.

“Hmmm, I thought so. But not until I know your name.” The left corner of his mouth lifts into a smug grin. How foolish of me.

I slowly release a breath through my nose, looking around the room as I ponder how to give him the answers he requires.

There’s nothing for me to hide. I don’t know any informationtohide. All I know is what lies within these walls.

Papa might be unhappy, but he’s not here. I just pray these men are gone by the time he returns.

Though I don’t have writing utensils, I do have hands. Wiggling my fingers from where they’re bound, he catches the movement and arches a brow. A dimple forms in his cheek from gnawing at it on the inside.

As best I can, I write an E into the air.

Emerald eyes follow my finger before flicking towards the door. He steps away and the silence stretches on.

“Can you speak?”

Finally,something I have an answer to. My eyes flare with relief and I toss my head side to side.

I haven’t spoken in at least four years. Papa went to great lengths to ensure it.

Although frustrating at first, I had very little need to communicate. For the first time in a long while, I want so badly to yell at this man standing before me. The anger is foreign, but it feels better than the despair of the past few weeks.

The man doesn’t spare me another glance as he exits the room. Half relieved and half concerned, I stare at the ceiling. A chandelier hangs in the center, the glass dulled from decades worth of dust. Only having been in this room once before, it’s strange to see how little has changed.

As a child, I didn’t get ill very often; I wasn’t around people enough to catch anything. Around the age of six, though, I got sick in the night and came here to wake Papa. His bedroom was strictly off limits, but I was frightened.

He told me to never enter his room again.

I vomited three more times and cried the whole night. And I never ventured to this side of the house again.

I could put up more of a fight, but the truth is, I don’t have the energy. I’ve been surviving on what food and water my father left for me before he disappeared. What I assumed would be a few days turned out to be a few weeks. It wasn’t so bad at first; I’d been left alone for days before. But one morning, the lights stopped working and the pipes only offered a sputter of cold water before running dry. Desperate and scared for my life, I survived on the water from my toilet tank and rationed out what little food I had.

Every day that I passed the mirror in my room, I grew more afraid. My cheeks grew hollow, my knees bulbous. With no way to bathe myself or the dresses I wore, I meticulously brushed my hair. My black locks were stringy with oil, but there wasn’t a tangle in sight. For the sake of my sanity, I had to do something.

I jump, coming to attention when the hinges creak. In walks my captor, slamming the door in the face of his partner. I wonder how they know each other, because they certainly don’t get along well.

He turns the lock before walking back towards my father’s bed and tossing a notebook onto my stomach. Pulling the knife from his back pocket, he motions to my bound hands.

“Which is your dominant hand?”

I don’t understand, so I stare back blankly.

He heaves a sigh, like I’m the one being a bother, and palms the back of his neck.

“You can write, can’t you?” The question is laced with contempt, heating my cheeks. I nod.

“Okay,” he motions at me with the blade, sending a reflection of light dancing across the walls. “So which hand do you write with?”

Why didn’t he say that in the first place? I wiggle the fingers of my left. He grunts, rounding the bed. As quick as a blink, the rope is sliced and slack. I shake out my wrist, ridding myself of the pins and needles.