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I wondered if my son liked Ferris wheels.
I wondered if he knew that I existed.
I felt someone behind me, but I didn’t turn. I didn’t want Guillermo to see my tears.
‘She die?’ he asked, crossing his arms and leaning on the railing beside me.
I shook my head. ‘Nope. Still kicking.’
Before he could do any more talking, I turned and pushed past him, walked down the hall and closed the door, shutting myself in my room. I sat on the edge of my bed, pulling Dornan’s shirt around me. I was pathetic. I was in love with a man who could never be mine, and I hated myself for that.
* * *
Later, in the bath, I took a disposable razor and snapped the plastic with my fingers, releasing the sharp blade within. I kept the hot water running and the plug a little loose to make sure the tub was continually refilled with hot water. I laid out underneath a blanket of fluffy bath bubbles until they shifted under the pressure of the running water, revealing the body I worked so hard to keep fit.
Going to the gym was one of the few freedoms I had – not that it was really a freedom with Guillermo in tow, but it was something to break the monotony. Something to focus on as I ran miles and miles on the treadmill, longing for fresh air on my face. They had these fans you could point at your face as you ran, but the air smelled of sweat and socks, not salt and water.
There was a soft knock at the bathroom door, and Guillermo poked his head in.
‘You want a drink, girlie?’ He made a tipping gesture against his mouth and I allowed a small smile.
‘Sure,’ I said, placing the razor on the cold tiles that edged the deep tub. I wasn’t worried about Guillermo seeing me naked – there were now enough bubbles covering me that the only things visible were my head and the tops of my knees as they stuck out of the water. And I wasn’t worried about him trying anything. Over the years, Guillermo had become one of the few people that I could trust to some degree. He’d shared parts of his life with me, stories from his past, and he’d become a constant in my daily life. And, as much as I hated to admit it, I actually felt safer with him around. There were no more random visits from Murphy like there had been in the beginning of my captivity, no worries about coming and going as I pleased. I got my fresh air, and Guillermo was the price I paid.
Guillermo was a murderer. He’d gone to jail for blowing up his house while his wife slept inside with the guy she was cheating on Guillermo with. The cartel had gotten him a light sentence in a plea deal, since Guillermo was one of the power-players with Mexican connections. Even with those connections, he was still in the minor leagues compared to Dornan and John, which was probably why he’d been assigned to me. We had an odd relationship, almost like brother and sister. He reminded me of my own brother in a way, minus the homicidal tendencies, and I wasn’t afraid of him trying anything on me.
Guillermo left, returning with two tumblers of what looked like vodka on the rocks. He handed me the one with a slice of lime and took his over to the vanity, leaning against the countertop as he looked at me questioningly.
He nodded his head towards the naked razor on the edge of the tub. ‘If you die, I’ll kill you,’ he said jokingly.
I shrugged, a wry smile touching my lips. ‘I’d never die,’ I replied, lifting my foot out of the water and watching rivulets of water stream down, back into the tub. ‘Who’d make your coffee in the morning?’
He groaned.
‘What?’ I asked. He was distracting me from the urge to stick my head underwater and drown myself.
‘It’s just like when I was married,’ he said, shaking his head. ‘Pretty little wife fucking somebody else in my house, and I have to visit the clubhouse to get any.’
I grinned, staring up at the ceiling. ‘This isn’t your house. But sounds like a marriage, alright.’ I sobered, my grin slipping as I remembered Dornan telling me what Guillermo had done to his cheating wife. Forensics hadn’t been able to separate her tissue and bones from that of her lover’s without DNA testing every last little piece. I reminded myself to never get on his bad side.
‘Don’t blow me up, okay?’ I drained my vodka and set the glass on the lip of the bath, chewing ice loudly. ‘I know exactly how much half and half to put in your coffee. Those bitches at Starbucks have nothing on me.’
He chuckled. ‘You’re dangerous,’ he said in Spanish, closing the door and leaving me alone.
My smile vanished the moment he closed the door. I sat up, my nipples hardening against the cool night air. I drew my knees up out of the water and took hold of the razor blade with one hand, stroking my skin with the other. I hadn’t changed. As I pressed the tip of the sharp blade into the wet flesh of my thigh and watched blood rise to the surface, the dull sting that reminded me I was alive brought a smile to my lips once more.
Sometimes the loneliness was too much. Sometimes it broke my soul. When you’re all alone for weeks at a stretch, the only touch the one of your enemy and owner, it becomes a daily struggle not to sink into the darkness and be swallowed, whole.
Guillermo was in the apartment, but he hardly qualified as a person I could bare my soul to. I had nobody in the quiet hours of the night. Every secret I shared was a potential weapon that could be turned against me, and I already had enough of those floating around without exposing more.
But I had a sharp razor blade, and a penchant for spilling my own blood, and so I whiled the hours away carving marks into my own skin. The cuts weren’t all that noticeable – tiny, deep gouges into the flesh above my knees.
Back when I’d first been taken by Emilio and his men, I had been a cutter. I’d favoured my wrists then, the way I could draw a knife or a piece of glass against my bare flesh and see my blood spring up, something to make me feel. One of the first things Dornan had done for me was tend to my wounds after I’d gouged my wrists, stuck in a windowless room in Emilio’s compound and going crazy with claustrophobia and grief.
My nasty little habit had served me well over the years. Kept the demons at bay, the ones that told me to just call my mother or track down Luis in Colombia or throw myself off the goddamn Sixth Street Bridge.
Because I couldn’t do any of those things, not really. If I tried to contact my family, they’d be killed, me along with them. If I tried to track down my son, what good would it do? It would be good for me, to hear his voice, to see his face. But for him? It’d be confusing, dangerous, and we’d both end up in the same predicament. Dead.
The first two options – contacting my family, or committing suicide – weren’t all that appealing. The third option, the cutting, was harder to stave off. More difficult to avoid contemplating, because it was the thing that got me through. I loved Dornan, I did. The work I did wasn’t particularly hard. I got to spend most of my day listening to music as I did the accounts for Emilio. I even took a sick pleasure in seeing how much money I could launder each day. And I was good at what I did. Despite the fact that I was doing it under duress, I was actually proud of how well I did what I did.
