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With nothing else to do, I tap on the mattress.
I should have been more consistent, should have followed the rules that I set for myself. I need my chanting rituals. They’re my little touchstones, giving me a sense of security that I need and crave.
I have to do the tapping ritual in the morning, at night before I go to bed, and before I go to any important meetings or job interviews. It’s better if I have a mirror, but it also works if I close my eyes while tapping and chanting.
Or it used to.
I sit there and tap and chant over and over again, whispering low so Joshua can’t hear the magic words. I repeat the chant again, and again, and again. It doesn’t help. I’m still here.
I’m going mad with boredom and hunger and thirst. And worse, this is only my second day here.
Or is it the third day?
I’m already losing track of time. And although I can go days without food—I did all the time as a child—I’ve never had to go without water before. I’ve always taken it for granted that I could just turn on the tap and water would come out.
I lie down on the bed and desperately try to think of anything but how thirsty I am, but it’s almost impossible. I’m utterly miserable.
A few times, I croak piteously at the security camera, begging for forgiveness. None comes. I didn’t really expect it to, but I had to try.
A million years drag by, and the light winks out, probably signifying nighttime. I wish I had more of those pills, because the bruises from my caning are throbbing, and I’m in too much pain to sleep.
But nobody comes. I start to cry.
Dear God, he’s going to leave me down here to die of thirst. What a horrible way to die.
I lie awake most of the night in a daze of misery and burning thirst. I’m not sure if I sleep at all. When the door finally opens, I’m ready to weep with gratitude, but I’m too dehydrated for tears.
I’m too weak and thirsty to be bothered by the look of hate that contorts Elizabeth’s face as she puts the hood on me and cuffs me. She leads me upstairs again, and the dull ache of my bruises throbs through my body. With every single step, all I can think is,Water, water, water.
Joshua is standing there, looking as cool and fresh as ever, with a white towel wrapped around his waist again. I cringe in shame. My breath stinks and my hair is matted and I have BO. I try to cover my body with my hands, but he grabs them and forces them to my sides.
“You’re disgusting, you know that? You make me want to vomit. You look like crap, and you smell like you bathed in pig shit.” His lip curls in scorn. I want to sink into the floor, to escape the contempt radiating from him. I hate being dirty. He’s sent me right back to grade school, walking through the door in filthy, stained clothes, with matted hair, as the teacher stares at me in horror and the children laugh and whisper behind their hands, their eyes shining with malicious glee.
“Eww. It’s that gross Tamara girl again. I hope she doesn’t sit next to me. She smells so bad.”
“She smells like doody. Look at her shoes—you can see her toes sticking out!”
I nod miserably.
“Please give me water,” I croak desperately, and he arches an eyebrow.
“Master!” I cry out desperately. “Please give me water, Master!” I am shaking so hard I’m ready to pass out. I dry-heave sobs. I’m so afraid he’ll send me back to the basement for forgetting to address him the way he demands. I can’t survive another day.
His gaze is merciless. “Get in the tub.”
I scramble to obey. I feel a flood of gratitude that he’s giving me orders I can follow.
That’s sick. Messed up. I can’t feel grateful for anything he does.
But I’m too exhausted and thirsty and weak to fight right now, even in my mind.
I throw my arms back over my head and let him fix my hands to the rubbery cuffs dangling from the bolts in the tile. I let him spread my legs open wide and affix each of them to the ankle cuffs.
He turns on the water and pours in a capful of sweet, heavenly smelling liquid from a bottle of amber fluid that was nestled into a little shelf in the wall. Instantly, flowery-scented bubbles start churning in the warm water. I start to croak out another plea, but he freezes me with a look.
“You haven’t earned the right to speak.”
When will he let me drink?I shake with dry sobs as he walks away, then I stiffen in terror as I see him bring back a silver razor. Then he sets down a can of shaving cream, and I relax and sag in the bathtub.
