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I need to go back and get it.
I can’t think about that though. Not now.
Taking off my shoes, I get into the bed, smelling fresh sheets—who has their bed changed daily? My butt hurts so I lay on my belly and draw the covers up to my neck, then higher and all I hear is the ringing in my ears and the sniffles as I stare off into nothing. I’m not sure if my eyes are open or closed, it’s so dark in here, until finally, I fall asleep.
When I wake, the clock tells me it’s four in the morning. I turn onto my back, wince with pain, look at his side of the bed to find it empty. I get up only because I need to use the bathroom, then climb back into the bed and close my eyes again.
My backside is throbbing and sore. My thighs too.
I’ve never been whipped like that. What Sean did, it was a different sort of beating. He liked to use his fists. He couldn’t do it as often as he wanted though. It didn’t look good on the video to have me looking beat up. Look like I was made to.
Although rape sold well, too, didn’t it? As well as child pornography?
God.
Jesus.
Hawk wants me to tell him that?
No. No way. I’m doing him a favor not telling him anything about that.
I squeeze my eyes shut against the things I did but those memories, they don’t go away. They don’t even dull. They’re in brilliant color and the details excruciatingly precise. I remember every sound, every touch, and it makes me sick, as sick now as if it were happening again.
I remember the looks on their face, too. All of them.
God.
I was a whore at eleven.
Little Bitch Whore.
His pet name for me. The bitch was because I fought. At least at first. Then I didn’t fight anymore. Not even when he wanted me to.
It’s so quiet here, it’s almost strange. If I stop to listen, it’s a sound itself, that silence. And it somehow calms me. Makes things almost manageable when I concentrate on it and that’s what I do. I sleep. I listen. I sleep.
And the next day when I wake up, I leave another message for Deirdre telling her I don’t feel well and it’s not a lie. I tell her I won’t be in for the next few days and just to close the shop and leave a note in the window.
By the time I have a shower the next night, he’s still not back.
I lock the bathroom door and strip off my clothes then turn my back to the mirror and look at myself. Look at the damage.
My butt and upper thighs are bruised, the welts of the belt distinct and tender to the touch. I don’t know how many strokes he gave me. I stopped counting after ten.
I switch on the shower and I don’t know if I’m weak from hunger or just sadness. It’s hard to even move, to get myself under the flow of water. All I want to do is sleep. I just want to sleep.
But I force myself to stand there, not shampooing or anything but standing under the water for a good five minutes. Afterwards, I dry off and I put on the same dress because it’s the thing near at hand.
I don’t want to put on new, nice clothes. What’s the point?
I’m hungry and I walk out of the bedroom. I’m quiet when I open the door. I listen for him. Listen for any noise.
But I’m alone.
And by the time I get to the kitchen, I’ve lost my appetite and I go back to bed.
I’m alone that day and the next and the one after that except for when the maid comes. I don’t let her clean the bedroom.
She’s hesitant to leave it and tries to tell me it’ll only take a few minutes, but I send her away anyway.
Each night without me having to call, a meal is delivered. I manage a few bites before leaving everything. The following morning, when I wake, the dinner tray is always gone and a fresh tray of breakfast is in its place. I think they bring lunch too. I heard the elevator once. But I sleep in the middle hours. Those are almost harder than the nights.
Every time I push the button to call the elevator, nothing happens. I know I need a key, and I guess they all have one. Everyone but me.
It’s not until four nights later when I’m standing at the balcony door trying to open it that I hear the elevator doors slide open behind me.
With a gasp, I turn to find Hawk walk in, big as ever, impeccable in his suit, fierce in his expression.
“You need a special key to open it,” he says like it’s not weird that he’s been gone for four days. That he’s kept me locked up in here all that time.
