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“I have a question,” I say, interrupting the conversation I’ve already zoned out of.
They all pause to look at me.
“How are you all sitting with me, knowing he’s keeping me here as a prisoner and acting as if everything is normal?” I say.
“We’ve seen many prisoners here, haven’t we?” the plump woman asks Gloria and Toothless.
They nod. “But to be sure, I’ve never seen him quite taken with a prisoner. Never seen him allow a prisoner to lay in his silk sheets,” Toothless says.
“Yeah, I think he might be quite taken with you,” Gloria says.
“She is pretty special, isn’t she?” the plump woman asks.
“Special? What does it matter where you keep a prisoner, if you’re just going to kill them anyway?” I ask.
“Just try your best to do as he says, and he might let you out alive. I’m rooting for you to live, and I’m telling you, I’ve never seen him treat a prisoner with such kindness,” she says.
Kindness? It’s more like an animal disarming their prey. Playing with their food before killing it and eating it. There’s no kindness there. Just a pure exercise in power.
“So, no more refusing to eat or challenging him. And try your best to enjoy your time here. I know. It’s crazy, and it’s hard. But we’re only one level up from prisoner. We’re just as powerless. One step out of line, and we’re in the same shoes as you, although I doubt we’d be given luxury sheets.” Gloria waves her eyebrows at the other ladies. “Sure, Lucian would fight for me, but I wouldn’t want to put him in such a dangerous position.”
My appetite is lost. I’d like to finish the rest of my food, but I can’t. The world outside of these walls is crazy enough as it is but inside these walls, it’s worse than an asylum; the people here are comfortable in their lunacy.
“Aye. And the rest of us don’t have a Lucian to fight for us. It’s all on us. So, we feel your pain, but what are we to do? We’re just trying to help you feel less trapped and alone. Maybe take your mind off everything with a few laughs and conversations. I imagine it’s quite a nightmare in your room with no one to talk to,” the plump woman says.
Is it crazy that she makes sense to me? Or is it just more evidence that the longer I stay in this place, the more my mind is being eaten away. Of course, I’d appreciate more than just pleasant conversation. Like offering to help me escape but at the same time, I understand they’d be risking their lives to save mine. And my life isn’t more valuable than theirs. I could never ask them to risk their life just so that I can live.
With new understanding, my heart warms from her words, and I nod, though I’m also gutted. “Thank you.”
“It’s just the way we cope, sweetheart,” Toothless says. “We talk together. We gossip. We laugh. Because if we don’t, we’ll cry, we’ll riot, and we might just lose our lives in the process.” She shrugs before knocking her chest and belching so loud, I’m impressed. It’s so unexpected that I laugh, and once I start, I don’t stop.
“Ah, there you go,” Gloria says, running a soothing hand down my arm.
My heart aches for their situation. My heart aches for mine. But I can’t cast judgment upon these women. At the end of the day, it doesn’t take a handful of men to fight wars. If we want to fight, as women, it’s also going to have to take more than a handful of us. And most of us aren’t willing. Because the world isn’t designed for us. We have no rights. To survive, we depend on men.
Oh, how I crave my books to dive into and imagine a world that’s made for me. My mind longs for hope. My feet ache for grass, fresh air, and the boredom I once thought was stifling. I miss freedom, but it might be something I never experience again. So, I guess they’re right, that for now, to protect my father and keep him alive, I must accept the circumstances as they are.
And when it comes to Adam Molotov, or men entirely, I must give up all ideas of love, respect, and tenderness. I am, whether he releases me, just a prisoner.
Chapter Fifteen
Adam
Palegreendrapesarepulled open along the rod tucked away beneath matching green cornices. Daylight streams into the drawing room of my family home. My mother is perched on a padded, dainty sofa, doing needlework while my father reads the newspaper on a single seat across from her. Children giggle and tiny feet sprint around all four corners of the room. The door slams when the children leave the room only to return in their chase of cat and mouse.
“I thought I told these kids not to run in the house,” my father mutters.
My mother looks up from her needlework and swallows. Her cheeks flush and her voice shakes “Children, you know your father doesn’t like it when you run in the house.”
We don’t hear her, and our play continues. My father slams the newspaper down on the small table next to him, holding his cigar tray and spirits.
“You’ve got to be firmer than that, Priscilla. They need to learn to obey and respect their authority,” my father says to my mother. When we run past him, he sticks his foot out. My brother jumps over it, but I trip and fall, knocking over his little table. All the contents fly to the floor. “Look what you’ve done! You imbecile!” my father roars.
My small lips tremble, and I’m not equipped to control the tears streaming down my face.
“And now he cries! Tell me, Priscilla. Are we raising girls in this house!” My father’s eyes widen, and his lips press together in a thin line. His cheeks are so red, a blood vessel might burst. He picks me up by my neck and holds my skinny body, so he can look me in the eyes. “Stop the crying,” he says. “Men don’t cry.”
My tears stop, only because I can’t breathe. My little feet kick against the wind, and my tiny fingers wrestle with his stronghold. My mother’s voice becomes a fading echo.
