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When I slept that night I dreamed of the good cell, bubble baths and music, rows and rows of books and CDs, blush pink nail polish, and fuzzy slippers. And I dreamed of him. His eyes boring through me, seeing all my secrets, his hands on my body, and his voice whispering in my ear.
When I woke up, I was bleeding.
FIVE
In the master bathroom of what I had come to callthe good cell, in the cabinet had been tampons and pads. Both. I hadn’t thought anything about it at the time. If I was going to rebel and potentially fail, I should have thought about it and picked another date.
Now I was stuck in a bare cell bleeding like a stuck pig. It was disgusting. Still, he didn’t change the routine. Whenever he opened the door I begged him for something. All he had to do was go down the hall to the bathroom and get it, but he didn’t acknowledge my request. Instead, he let me bathe twice a day.
Finally, I stripped off my clothes and went about the cell naked. I knew he did it just to punish me. Feminine protection in his book was a luxury not a necessity.
I spent a lot of time in the corner thinking, trying to analyze my captor. I wondered what his background was. Surely he had to understand psychology at least a little to be able to do this. Maybe he was some type of quite literally mad scientist, using me as a study in behavioral conditioning.
That’s the thing about conditioning. You can know it’s happening all you want; it doesn’t change the results. Eventually you break, reduced to something less than human. I felt like an animal as I crouched in the cell, blood dried on my leg. I felt wild.
I reacted like an animal. I found I listened for every little sound, watched every movement he made. I read body language and communicated through touch more than I had in my entire life. I spoke to him, mostly when I was scared, begging. But I hadn’t spoken any words of substance in over three weeks.
He opened the door again and brought in my food. It was the first meal since I’d decided to hell with clothing. I wondered if he would be repulsed by it, if he was the type of man who was deeply disturbed by a woman’s natural cycle. But he seemed neutral on the matter.
I spoke then, not my normal begging or pleading, but something more meaningful. I wanted to fight this degradation of communication and not forget how to talk.
“Are you a scientist?” My voice sounded strange to me when it came out at a normal volume and pitch, not through tears or panic.
He had been on his way out the door when he turned sharply toward me, his face shocked. It seemed to unbalance him that I would bring up casual conversation at a time like this.
It made me bolder. In my time as his prisoner, not once had I ruffled him even the tiniest bit. He’d expected everything I’d done, found it amusing and predictable, and now I had done something he found surprising. A part of me was afraid I was digging my hole deeper, but another, much larger part believed I might buy myself reprieve from my punishment if he found me sufficiently interesting. So I kept talking.
“You aren’t shocked by anything I do, except maybe this. So I wondered if you’d studied it. I studied it in college. I was originally going to be a psychologist specializing in research, like this, only . . . more ethical.”
His lips quirked up in the least disturbing smile I’d witnessed on him so far. Still, he didn’t speak to me. But he didn’t leave me alone either. He sat on the ground a few feet away, watching and waiting for me to continue.
I wrinkled my nose at the soup and crackers he’d put before me. God, I wanted the real food again. I’d do anything for a steak and a baked potato. I crumbled the crackers in and started to eat. I wanted to touch him, wanted him to touch me, but I knew if I made any move toward him, he’d leave again.
“Instead, I ended up getting my degree and writing self-help books of all things. But then you probably know that.” A pause. “Why did you take me?”
No answer.
“Do you hate women?”
No answer.
I took another bite.
“If you talk to me, I’ll still do whatever you want. I’ll still let you touch me.”
His eyes darkened; I’d crossed the line. He stood and went for the door.
“Wait. Please. I’m sorry. I won’t ask for anything. I know you have your reasons, okay?”
He turned and nodded at me once, then sat beside the door. The distance he’d put between us wasn’t lost on me. I took a deep breath and then a few more bites, chasing it down with water. He wasn’t leaving, and so I felt brave enough to ask what had been on my mind for awhile now. Getting my period had reminded me of more than just basic survival, but biological realities.
“Are you going to kill me if I get pregnant?”
No answer.
My voice shook a little as I spoke. I wasn’t crying, but there were tears in my voice, that catch you get when you start to get emotional but are holding back the floodgates.
“ . . . Because I know you can’t just take me to the hospital. And I don’t know if you have anyone you can bring in . . . or if you would even want me then. Please, I don’t want to die. I was on the pill before. The prescription is in my purse. You can put me back on it . . . ”
