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"They moved us," I tell him. "We were in the cabins, but when they thought we were ready—based on cameras, cause they were watching us all the time—they would move us to the next step of the place. Nobody knew what it was." Again, the stop and swallow. My eyes ache, but I'm not crying. "It turned out it was an old prison. Buildings. Up in...somewhere rural. Near the Canada border," I dare tell him. "They bought the prison first, then built the cabins. So they took us inside." I take a deep breath. I look at him again. "That place was where stuff went down," I say in a voice that sounds too low, and too soft. I look at the table. "She was on the girls' floor. I was on the boys. That's when shit got weird. You know what I mean?"
I look at him, brave enough to do that only because the inside of me feels so frozen, and he nods. "Yes," he says. "My shit got weird too."
I can tell by his face that he means that.
So...I tell him. I look at him, and I tell him all about it. Tears streak down my face, but it's weird; I'm not crying like I usually do. The tears are just there, and I keep wiping them. I tell him about Riley, and how I hated what they did to her, and it made me mad. I tell him about Paul, and how I didn't like him from the start. About the plastic windows, and my temper, and how sometimes, at first, I could get it up when female nurses jerked me off, but then I couldn't. Even with the stuff they gave us, I couldn't. I didn't like their cool, thin hands.
He nods, sometimes frowns. He's quiet, and I just...keep talking.
Even with the barf juice and my stomach churning, dicks still always got me up. I tell him how I hated Paul. I stumble over the word "hate"—pastors don't believe in hating, do they?—but he murmurs, "Of course," so I keep going.
My tears have dried up by the time I reach the part about how I mouthed off to Paul, but I notice my shoulders shaking. Just adrenaline.
"He was scared of me. That's what I think now," I say in a voice that trembles. "Sorry." My throat closes up, and he moves over to the couch beside me. "This too close?" he asks, and I shake my head, putting it in my hands.
"You can stop if you want,” he says. “Or you can keep going. I'm here with you. If you can say it, and you want to say it, say it to me."
I know I can. I just have to keep going.
I tell him how Paul lost it and locked me in the supply closet. I even manage a laugh at the analogy of that. "It's like that bad R. Kelly song."
And he laughs. "I think I remember that."
His hand comes down on my upper back. "Too much?" he says quietly, and I laugh again, a choked laugh into my hands.
"It's okay." I swallow. I move my hands off my face and look out at the coffee table again. "Anyway, I was locked inside there for thirty-four days." My voice doesn't crack at all on that part, but I can’t breathe after I say it. When he doesn’t gasp or have some sort of shocked outburst, I push myself to go on. "It was a really small space. Dark. When I asked for light, they brought this red light in. A red light bulb. So the room was red."
My voice is steady, but my torso shudders under his hand. "I think he wanted it to be like hell," I choke out. I get a few deep breaths, and his hand on my back rubs a little. "I would lie on my side, right by the wall. Sort of curled up. There was a sheet in there. It was a medical supply thing. So it was a sheet for that."
I didn't use the sheet for that.
I can't breathe.
He says, "It's okay," and his voice snaps me out of my head.
"They didn't bring that much food. But...some. And I stopped eating it." My voice shakes. "It was my fault. I stopped eating it in...protest. I don't know. There were needles in there. I would stab myself with them, like syringe needles. So I could feel something," I choke.
His hand rubs big circles on my back, and I keep going. "I tell everyone it’s chickenpox scars."
I don't; I don't know why I said that. I’ve never told anybody that line. It's a good idea, though.
I rub at my left hand. "I didn't know I would get weak. I guess I just..." I rub a hand into my hair. "It was stupid. Paul let it keep going," I whisper. "They wouldn't let me out. Unless I wrote on my walls, every blank spot, with letters no bigger than my pinkie finger: I have no more wrath. That was the sin he said I had the worst of."
