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think.
“Mhm,” he hums, standing up and loosening the rope. Before I know I'm not tied to the chair, he tugs me harshly towards him, my wrists still bound.
“Behave,” he instructs.
“Okay,” I meekly respond.
Not yet.
The walk to my room isn’t long, but it stretches on with the way he tucks me under his arm and sniffs my hair’s subtle scent of cheap shampoo.
“You always smell so fragrant,” he speaks. Somehow, from him, it doesn’t sound like a compliment. Once we enter the room, he wastes no time finding a sturdy spot on the bed’s headboard to tie the rope to. He's distracted, hunched over the bed, tying the rope to the farthest bar. Time slows. My heartbeat thumps in my head. My eyes sting as I watch him, unblinking. Now's the moment. Either I'll succeed, or I'll perish in the attempt.
I throw my arms around his head and yank him back, working my hardest to apply pressure I hope will stop his airflow. Pins and needles prick my muscles, still weakened by the mystery drug he’d injected me with earlier. My grasp on him doesn’t feel firm enough, and my internal pleading only encourages anxiety, draining the little strength I manage to cling to.
He jerks back his head, narrowly missing my own, causing us to roll onto the bed. His weight falls onto my stomach, punching the air out of me. He wrestles, kicks, twists, and turns with his reddening face and shrinking trachea, rapidly escaping my grip. The rope catches on his jaw and is the only sliver of a chance I’ll be able to keep him trapped until asphyxiation. In one swift movement, he claws at my pants, dragging me down and pushing himself up, catching a gasp of air. Slipping from my pathetic grip, he turns around and pins my bound wrists down.
“You fucking bitch!” he screams, then adjusts his volume to avoid attention from neighbors. Spittle spews from his mouth, and rage reddens his face rather than the lack of air, “Why do you always have to ruin us,” the words are whispered, but his intensity is rough—veins looking like they were about to burst, protruding from his neck and forehead. Tears stream down his face. He seizes the rope, makes an extra loop around my hands, and knots it until the only way to detach it from the bed frame would be to cut it. I squirm and yelp as the rope strangles my wrists, purpling my fingers.
“Shut the fuck up!” his voice is pinched and almost unintelligible through his stifled cries. He brattily stomps the floor and tugs at his hair, curling into a ball. The sight is debilitating.
I fucked up.Nothing and no one can make me peer in his direction. The consequences aren’t worth it.
I flinch as he shoots up from his ball and locks his searing stare onto me, “You always do this! We were fine a second ago, and—and see what you did,” the end of his sentence devolves into sobs.
He tugs my face towards him. His grip on my jaw holds me in place like a statue.
“You,” his lip twitches. Tears are still rolling down his face, but his eyes bear on me. Voice steady. Normal.
“It’s been too long,” he mumbles to himself, his realization like he’d discovered an eighth wonder, “You need a reminder of how great we are together,” he enunciates. My heart sinks when he reaches to undo his zipper.
Without daring to voice any objections, I realize that playing along is my only viable option.
"Okay, baby. Make love to me. You're right, I must have forgotten," as I try to sound convincing.
"That's right, Carmen. You know who your daddy is," He tries to play the dirty talk game to entice me. It used to work, but now it makes me nauseous. Playing along with his delusion is the only way I can get another chance to escape. Legs flail. Nails dig. Mind blanks. His version of“love” is more than I can handle. Months upon years it took me to shake off the nasty, dirty feeling of him inside of me.
The day sex shifted from being a fulfilling experience to a mundane chore escapes my memory. I struggle to recollect the moments when it was more than just a task. The memories are repressed somewhere in a dingy corner, dolled up in my high school prom’s tacky decorations and some stupid, attention-seeking part of me was in there; my prom dress was hiked, and my neck was covered in bite marks.
Allowing him to dictate my life for too long, on his terms and at his whim, drained me. The effort required to mend what he took from me while enduring his relentless pursuit was immense. A repeat of that cannot be permitted. Never again.
The room falls into silence with only the constant thud of the bed against the wall. I jerk with every thrust like a ragdoll. He grunts and moans like we are making sweet love, but all we're making is noise and disgusting, involuntary fluids that roll down my inner thighs, lying to him, saying that deep down, I love it.
“No one will ever love you like I do. You belong to me,” he kisses me, content. To him, I do belong. It’ll be years before I belong to myself again.
***
As I lay in bed, I am tired yet awake. Captured. After his meltdown, he calms and loosens the rope around my wrists enough for blood to squeeze through. He makes breakfast. Needless to say, I'm not hungry.
“You have to eat something,” he cocks his head, dragging in a chair and setting it beside the bed, “It’s the most important meal of the day! Come on, one bite and I’ll leave you alone,” he smiles, holding up a forkful of pancake. The cool, pointy prong scratches at my lip. I’d been dragged through the scalding center of the earth, and once I came out the other side, the non-existent traction hurled me towards the never-ending, frosty abyss. I am still spinning in space while he plays pretend on Earth.
“Don’t be like that,” he tisks. His statement makes me long for a bullet in his skull, “Fine, we’ll try this later,” he sets down the plate on the bedside stand and busies his hands with my hair, leaning on the bed, his infuriatingly smug smile hovering over me. Finding constellations in the popcorn ceiling, I stare straight ahead.
“Excellent news. There's a way I can get us out of here,” he sounds, a sing-songy tune to it, “It’s gonna be a little uncomfy, but it’ll work,” he tugs at a couple of hair strands, giggling in anticipation. “I need to buy a suitcase big enough for you to fit in, and we’ll have to use your car—you don’t mind, do you?” My response doesn't come. A thoughtful expression flashes across his face, then
drops into frustration. Panic pierces me. Offering a half-hearted hum, I hope this 'response' will be enough to redirect his attention elsewhere. His hands come together with a resounding clap.
“Great! And don’t worry about the suitcase; you won’t remember it. You’ll wake up to beautiful blue waves and open sky!” meaning he’ll drug me again.
