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“What's the problem?” he asks in his muffled voice.
“This,” I keen, while pointing to the source of my agony. “My skin is torn to shreds. I’m cut in places I didn't know could be cut. I wasn’t thinking when I used your soap.”
Without a verbal response, he disappears into the hallway then returns moments later with a clean washcloth. He reaches for the showerhead, fingers a switch that causes the stream pressure to lighten significantly then wets the cloth and begins carefully wiping my skin. Water gets everywhere, but he doesn’t seem to care. His blue eyes are bright lights cutting through the fog, and I wonder if his mask will short circuit if it gets wet.
The man straightens, and rinses the cloth again. The liquid being squeezed from the rag is a light brown. “Put your hands against the wall and spread your legs,” he commands once the water runs clear.
Call me crazy, but after this most recent demonstration of his demeanor, I have no problem giving him my back. So I turn to face the shower wall, placing my hands on the cool white tile with my forehead following suit. I close my eyes as my kidnapper studiously administers care to the remainder of my afflictions. Dare I say, it feels good as he meticulously cleans and tends to my backside.
I lean into his caress, and when he taps my ankle then grabs it, I instinctively know I’m supposed to lift my foot. It tickles a little as the cloth moves against my sole. I bite into my bottom lip to suppress a giggle, but I don’t move a muscle. After a few seconds, he does the same for my other leg. If I wasn’t so tired and exhausted, I would’ve questioned why he’s being so gentle.
It’s only a few moments without his touch before I realize he has stepped away. The water that once felt like pins and needles hitting my slashes is now almost therapeutic. My back arches with the soothing pressure, and I welcome the massage.
I’ve grown accustomed to the silence of the shower, letting my mind rest as well. I’m so immersed in the relaxing sensation that I almost miss his return.
“This might hurt a bit.”
He must have seen the slight slump of my shoulders because he adds, “You can’t tell me you don’t like a little pain.”
I don’t have time to respond before my hair is being tugged. It’s not exactly painful but it’s also not pleasant. After a few more seconds of the same treatment, I realize…he’s brushing my hair? He must have gotten a comb or a brush.
After tonight, I thought I would need to cut my hair, thinking there’s no point in washing it. It’s so matted it could be misconstrued as a rat’s nest, but the masked man grabs shampoo and conditioner, combing through the tangled mess of my dark hair. He’s not exactly gentle but he definitely isn’t the brutal ass from outside.
Once the comb runs easily through my locks, he tosses the brush somewhere to the side with a clatter. I’m almost regretful when he pulls me from the wall and positions me under the shower head. His caring and compassionate touch is missed while I rinse all the products from my hair. My eyes follow him with a newfound longing as he takes his leave from the bathroom.
The loneliness is loud and almost oppressive, that once gained comfort slowly dwindling. After a few moments of solace, I turn off the valves and step from the shower. Water drips from my face, hair and limbs as I scan my surroundings. There's a floating countertop with his and her sinks in white porcelain. A giant mirror, and tons of matching, rustic wood cabinetry. I debate looking through them, but I don’t want to betray the delicate trust he has placed on me.
But no towel.
Ugh. What. The. Fuck.
To my right is a narrow barn door which I assume slides open to a linen closet. Wringing the excess water from my hair, I shake my body as a wet dog does when it tries to dry itself. I don’t do it as vigorously in fear I'll slip and hit my head on the toilet. Once I’ve removed as much as I can, I very carefully step over the side of the tub and tip toe over in hopes it's a linen closet. But to my surprise, it’s not.
Behind the wooden door is an in-home sauna. The pleasant smell of cedar tickles my nostrils and I breathe it in. There’s two cedar slotted sauna chairs inside, one lies flat and the other is set upright with…
…a towelfolded neatly on its seat.
I take a few paces forward, knowing it’s a trap, but the warmth of the sizzling rocks calls to me. Besides, if he really wants me in here, he could just physically put me in here. That sounds an awful lot like a person giving up. Am I? No. Am I doing what I need to survive for my kids? Sure. I’m just honing in on my self preservation at this point.
I’m two steps from the towel when his voice has me pausing in my tracks.
“Nuh, uh, uh,” my tormentor sing-songs from the doorway.
“You said I could use the towel,” I all but whine like a petulant child.
“Fuck the towel, this is a much better way for you to dry off. Then if you do as I say, you’ll get the clean clothes as promised,” he tilts his chin at a chair. “Sit on that bench and lay your head back.”
I do as I’m told and take the remaining steps to the upright chair with the towel. Before sitting down, I eye it, not sure what I’m supposed to do. This has to be a test.
“You’re learning,” he offers. His voice drips with pride and recognition of my obedience. “Sit and put it behind your head like a pillow.”
Doing as he commands, I pick it up before sitting down. I angle the towel behind my head so it’s comfortable and doesn’t fall.
"Just like that. Now. Put your shoulders back and slide that fine ass forward.”
I slide against the smooth, warm wood until I can't go any farther. The exhaustion from the night's activities rack my body. It feels like boulders are weighing me down, and I could fall asleep sitting like this.
No sooner do I lie my head back, the man closes the door and struts over with purpose. It’s only been a matter of a minute, but the heat from the sauna has warmed up the parts of my body the shower wasn’t able to. He’s fully dressed with that damn mask on, if he doesn’t take something off soon, he’s going to sweat to death.
