Stained (8 page)

No.

I can't think like that. I'm going to get out of here. And when I get back home, I will do the things I wish I'd done.

I shiver, my teeth chattering. I don't want everything to end like this
. I don't want to die.
I slide to the floor and crawl across, patting in front of me until I find the comforter. I wrap it around me, up to my nose, trying to get warm.

 

A sound jolts me awake. I sit up stiffly, clutching the comforter around me tighter. There's a scrape of metal on metal, the thud of something moving aside.

I leap to my feet and turn to face the sound, my legs trembling.

The door opens, bringing a rush of cold air. The stench of Brian's pine cologne assaults my nostrils.

I charge toward the breeze, the sounds—and slam into a hard, lumpy protrusion, and then a warm body.

Brian grunts. Something heavy thuds to my feet, the floor reverberating. Brian grips my shoulders. “Where do you think you're going?”

“Let me go!” I wrench away and try to get past him.

Brian jerks me back. “This is your new home, Sarah. Get used to it. And let me tell you, you've got it better than the others did, so quit your victim act. I know you're stronger than they were.”

Others. Bile rises in my throat. I swallow it back. There was more than one. “What happened to them?” I ask, trying to keep my voice from shaking.

Brian shoves me back farther, one foot nudging something along the floor, making a scraping noise. The door slams shut. “I gave them freedom from the pain in their lives—the same way I'll give it to you.”

“I don't need that! I'm happy. Just let me go home.”

“You didn't look happy yesterday when those boys were taunting you. I'll bet you would have gone straight to your mommy, crying your eyes out, wanting her to make it all better. And your poor mother would have been crying along with you.” His voice cracks. “That's not happy, Sarah. Not for you, and not for anyone around you. But I can give you happiness. I can give you freedom from your pain.”

“I don't need freedom. Mom says that pain makes us stronger.”

“She
would
say that. She has to reassure you, and herself, too. It's how she gets through the pain you cause her.”

“Just let me go home. I won't tell anyone.”

“Sorry, no can do,” Brian says cheerfully.

It almost sounds like he cares about my mom. I bite my lip. “If you keep me here, you're not just hurting me; you're hurting my mom and dad, too.”

“You're the one who's hurting them.” He takes hold of my hands, his skin soft, like he uses hand cream. I try to yank away, and he squeezes my hands tighter, my bones grinding together. “Your parents can't look at you without suffering.”

“And that's
my
fault?” God, he's already got me believing him. I've got to stay with my own reality. “They love me. Not knowing where I am is what will make them suffer.”

“That will fade. And then they will feel better—a whole lot better. They will know freedom, too.” He lets go of my hands. “I brought you some food.”

My stomach growls loudly. I want to punch it into silence.

Brian laughs.

I clench my teeth, hating that he knows I'm hungry. Hating that he is here. I back up into a wall. The room feels too small with him in it.

“You see? I tend to your needs. I am merciful—more than your parents have ever been.”

I turn my stained cheek away from his voice and lick my dry, rough lips.
He's crazy. He's crazy, and I never saw it.

“You thirsty? You must be. Do you want something to drink?”

I want to refuse him, but my throat aches too much. “Please.”

“Good. You can have something, then. I'm not unreasonable.”

“Then let me go.”

Brian doesn't answer. There's the sound of a zipper, then a cap unscrewing and liquid being poured into a cup. He holds the cup to my lips, and it shakes, or maybe I'm the one shaking.

I gulp at the water, trying to drink it all before he takes it away. The strap pinches my throat and water dribbles over my chin and down my neck, but I don't care; it tastes so sweet and good.

He takes the cup away.

“No! Please. Not yet.”

“You'll give yourself cramps if you drink too fast,” Brian says. “Just wait a minute.”

His voice is almost tender. I don't understand how he can sound like that. He's a monster.

“Are you hungry?” Brian asks. “Think you could eat something?”

Saliva fills my mouth. I want to gobble down whatever he offers me, but I know I can survive without it. And the gentleness in his voice feels wrong now, put on, like he's trying to make me trust him.

“Are you hungry or aren't you?” he asks, anger creeping into his voice.

Anger is good. That means he isn't getting what he wants. “Thirsty.”

Brian grunts. I hear water splash into the cup, and then he holds the cup to my lips again.

I drink until I can't drink any more, and then I take a few more swallows. When he fills the cup for the fourth time and puts it to my lips, I turn my head away.

“Fine,” Brian says. He doesn't sound angry this time.

I feel him move closer, the heat from his body pushing against me. I wish I could see him. Wish I knew what he was doing.

“You peed yourself. I'd better clean you up.”

“That's okay! Don't bother.”

Brian snorts. “Don't be a prude.” He unbuttons my jeans.

I hit out wildly. “Don't touch me!”

He grips my wrists. “Don't be like that. I want to help you. Can't let you sit around smelling like that.”

Down goes the zipper of my jeans. He pushes my T-shirt up, then rests his hands on my hips.

My skin ripples.
Don't let this be happening.

He yanks at my stiff jeans.

“Get off me!” I claw at him, but he doesn't stop, just keeps tugging my jeans down. I wish I'd never bought my new, cutesy undies, bright blue low-rises with red trim and
SUPERGIRL
printed on them in sparkly silver. I wanted to feel strong after the pain of my first treatment. Like I was wearing armor no one could see.

Brian yanks at my undies.

I kick and punch him, but it's like I'm not doing anything.

“I've waited longer for you than the other girls—but I can wait only so long. You have to know what love is.”

“This isn't love! This is rape.” I punch him again.

“No, Sarah—this is love. Now, will you let me teach you?”

I scream from the pit of my stomach, as loud as I can.

He catches my wrists again, pressing so hard it hurts. “I'm not going to hurt you. But quit screaming, or I'll have to put the gag back in.”

I can already feel it choking me. I strangle my voice into silence, his overpowering cologne tasting bitter in my mouth.

“You didn't give me your answer, you know,” he says, his voice gentle.

No!
I almost scream.
Get off me!
But I don't scream anything. I'm afraid he'll put the gag back in.

“Silence is understood to mean yes,” he says.

Not with me, it isn't.

I hear water dripping, and then a wet cloth rubs over my leg, smelling like Ivory soap. Clean and pure.

I tremble as he works on my left leg, then my right. I can almost imagine I'm little again, Mom cleaning me up in the bathroom. I want it to be her.

And then he puts the cloth between my legs.

I jerk away, but he yanks me back, then pulls me to the duvet, the floor hard beneath it.

“No, no, stop!”

He straddles me, using his weight to keep me still. “Just relax.”

I try to heave him off, and he sits on me harder.

There is the crinkle of a wrapper, and I can feel him fumbling beside me.

My teeth chatter. I know what he's doing.

At least I won't have to worry about him getting me pregnant
an inane part of my brain thinks.

I claw at him, my nails scraping against his warm flesh, catching on his shirt, popping a button.

He slaps my face. “Stop that.”

“No!” I shout, my voice breaking.

He pins my arms down and thrusts his way in. I can feel my flesh tearing.

Let it be over. Please, god, let it be over.

I bite him, getting hold of his cheek, then his ear, but he just moves faster, as if he likes my reaction.

Hot tears and snot burn against my skin.

All I can smell is him, his musky body odor and stinging cologne. His salty taste is in my mouth, sweat mixed with my tears. And it hurts. God, it hurts. “Get off me!”

His hands squeeze my throat, gripping tightly.

I can't breathe.

This is it. This is how I'm going to die.
I love you, Daddy.
My chest burns.

Brian shudders on top of me, then lies there, gasping, his hands leaving my throat.

I suck in air, his weight flattening my chest, making it hard to breathe. I am crying, choking and shaking and crying.

He heaves himself off me and strokes my cheek with his hand, his fingers catching on the blindfold. “You'll come to like it, Sarah; you'll see.”

Go to hell.
But I don't say that. I know he'd only enjoy it.

I lie there, rigid, tears leaking from my blindfolded eyes, until his hand leaves my face and he pulls away.

I hear him stand, brush off his suit, zip up his pants, his breath heavy.

I try to make my body part of the floor, stiff and unfeeling, as he crouches over me and kisses my forehead.

“I'll see you soon,” he whispers.

No!

He walks away, footsteps creaking. The door squeaks open, then thuds closed. There's a grating sound, then silence.

I pull my knees up to my chest, tuck my face against them, and try to rock the pain away.

I ROCK MYSELF BACK and forth, back and forth. I can almost feel the way my dad used to rock me when I was little. I wish he were here now, holding me. I want to press my head against his shoulder and make this all go away.

Pain drones between my legs. I touch my fingers to my sore skin and feel hot, sticky wetness. Blood.

I shudder, my stomach heaving.

I feel so dirty, like his smell is clinging to me still, sweat and cologne and sex. Like he's stained me deeper than my birthmark ever could. Stained my soul, stained everything that makes me who I am.

I scrub at my skin, trying to get rid of the feeling of his body against mine, but it stays like an imprint in my flesh. I hate my body, hate what it remembers, what it let him do.

No. It's him I should hate.

I reach for my clothes, patting the floor until I find them. Undies first. I ease them up over me, breathing out at the pain. Then my damp jeans, one leg at a time, biting down on my lip. It doesn't matter if it hurts. I won't let him find me without my jeans on.

I pull them all the way on, do up the zipper, fumble with the button. I feel safer already, as if wearing my jeans will somehow keep him from raping me again. As if they did anything to stop him just minutes ago.

I retch and try to slam the memory out of my mind.

I get unsteadily to my feet. Why has he left me here again? If he's going to kill me, why doesn't he just get it over with? Or does he want to keep me here forever? But that can't be right, not if he's had other girls. My stomach heaves again, hot acid rushing up my throat. I bend over, gagging and spitting.

I've got to escape.

I yank at the blindfold, but it's buckled so tightly, it's like it's become part of my skin. “Why'd you leave this stupid blindfold on if you were going to untie everything else?” But I know why. It keeps me helpless.

I go over what I know: the door is locked from the outside, the windows are boarded up, and I don't have any tools. And Brian might kill me when he comes back.

No. I'm missing something. I press my hands to my head. That thud I heard earlier, the dragging sound.

I force myself across the uneven floor, sweeping each foot in front of me until it hits something. I bend down and touch stiff, hard fabric, a long zipper, short handles. A sports bag, the kind jocks carry to football and hockey practice. Inside is roughened, itchy fabric. I explore it with my fingers. A wool hat. What an odd thing to give me. I reach in again, my fingers touching a small folded rectangle. I open it up, the plastic crinkling loudly. It's a strong, thin plastic blanket, bigger than me. I sit there, feeling it between my fingers. It reminds me of the survival blanket Dad used to pack when we went camping. I sit back on my heels.

Brian wants me to survive the cold. To survive more than just a few hours. My heart pounds so hard it feels like it's going to burst. I take a slow breath to calm myself. I wrap the blanket around my shoulders like a cape, tying it at my neck, then reach inside the bag again, touching cold, smooth plastic, plastic that is pear shaped and has a handle. I run my fingers to the top of the plastic and twist. The cap comes off in my hand.

I sniff it. No smell. Heft it up with both hands and take a small, careful mouthful. It tastes cool and clear. Fresh.

Water. He's left me water. I swallow, then swallow again, feeling the liquid trickle down my throat, easing the soreness. I can't use the thin plastic as a tool, but the water will keep me alive.

My hands tremble beneath the heaviness of the jug. It feels bigger than a jug of milk.

I choke. “He's not coming back soon. Maybe not ever.”

I screw the lid back on the jug and set it down at my feet. It probably holds at least three days' worth of water—more, if I'm careful. It'll take me at least that long to work on the window.
Damn him.

What else did he leave me? I reach toward the bag, almost dreading what I'll find. I touch a bucket. No, two of them. One tucked inside the other.