He wasn’t a monster.
He was a man. Just a man.
A man diseased of mind.
He left me in the bath for an hour. The
water had cooled considerably and I was back to shivering. I didn't mind
though; just another grievance added to an ever extending list.
There was something growing in me.
Something far more than the festering hate that had begun too many years ago.
This girl that sits obediently in the bath, awaiting her master's return was
just an image, a picture in a book with no accompanying explanation. She sits
in silence, she answers his questions and she succumbs to his touches without
complaint. But in the dark recesses of her mind something continues to thrive.
Like a switch flipped it had changed her from that pathetic, frightened girl
into a soulless demon playing a sickening game. Dragging him in with her
acquiesce until she could chew him up and spit him out.
My mouth twitched involuntarily.
A low panic started, my heart rate
accelerating instantly, that pounding of rushing blood echoing in my ears. I
sat still, concentrating on my mask. Isolating every single individual facial
muscle I could find and shutting them down one by one. I had not had a slip up
like this in a year. Wearing a mask so long it had changed from uncomfortable
to normal.
My breathing slowly evened out as I kept my
eyes forward and my ears tuned to the sounds of him eating dinner. Opening a
bottle of wine and the glug of pouring it into a glass. I could not expect any
food this evening, he had fed me yesterday and regularly missed days to keep my
weight at an acceptable level.
He liked my appearance. Liked the long,
dark auburn hair that, when washed and styled would be thick with ringlet like
curls. Liked the green eyes that, although blank and unfocused, were pretty
none the less. Liked the smaller stature that was kept at an 'acceptable'
slimmer size.
Some would hate their appearance; shoved
into slavery because of someone else's desires. I didn't...I hated him. This
was me. Regardless of the fact that it attracted him, I could not hate the way
I looked. If I had been less attractive then maybe it would have been some other
family he infiltrated, some other girl. I'm glad it was me for no other reason
than I’m going to enjoy the end result. I'm going to revel in his screams of
pain. An eye for an eye, he has so much coming to him.
My plans are changing, those ones so carefully
thought out, so obsessively constructed. My entire thought process hidden
behind that locked door like little beams of light firing at different options.
They all converged on one single result though; failure. I had expected to be
out by now. All this planning. All this scheming. His attention to detail was
astounding.
My mind may be functional but my body was
not. Weaker than him, I'd planned for strengthening exercises while locked in
my cell all day. The camera in the corner had proved a deterrent.
Stealing a pen from the desk in his room to
test his focus, I'd hidden it well in the mattress I'd originally been provided
with. The mattress had been removed and not been given back. I would not be
getting and keeping a weapon.
An attempt to remove myself from the bath
one evening and walk to the toilet had also proved a failure. I heard those
shoes and their tapping before my foot even touched the floor. I would not be
escaping in stealth. It was infuriating, the man must have cameras everywhere.
I'd suffered the punishment willingly at the time – every failure was just one
step closer to winning. Now however there was this kernel of desperation, a
tiny light in the corner of my mind, a constant need for one,
just that one
chance.
It was do or die time. I would either escape or die trying, I was
too invested in this act to start over, I would lose my mind to have to go back
to the beginning before I'd earned a modicum of trust.
I heard him stacking the dishwasher. The
kitchen, I knew, was twelve foot to the end of the hallway, a right turn,
passed the staircase that joined onto the wooden flooring covered in a thick
rug and through heavy double doors that muted the sounds.
My hearing was one thing I assumed I had
acquired from my non existent lineage. I was forever grateful for this. It
allowed me many things, not least the ability to hear him coming.
I heard those heavy double doors close with
a
thunk.
Those fucking tapping shoes on the wooden
flooring, they beat a drum to my heartbeat.
I checked that straight face was in place
and stared ahead at the tiles. I'd whisper a plea for an easy night but it
seemed useless. Even though every so often one would slip out, I'd long ago
given up hope for an answered prayer. I wondered if anyone was listening, if someone
could hear me but I was simply ignored. I wondered which was worse; the absence
of hope or the disregard.
He was humming again. It was really
starting to annoy me; how happy he was at my suffering.
That was another surprise; that I couldn't
keep the annoyance from surfacing, that I had to try at all to push it back
down. I was becoming even more desperate, if I couldn't even keep it together
any more I couldn't continue to wait and plan.
The sudden shrilling of the doorbell nearly
made my heart stop. I blew out breaths in long bursts attempting to calm myself
down again. His footsteps had scuffed on the waxed flooring as he abruptly
stopped and turned back towards the door in frustration. I can only imagine the
Hell I’m going to get if I can't get those marks out tomorrow. I hear the door
opening and a cheery voice filters through to me.
My heart literally nearly bursts with
excitement.
I know that voice.
That voice that saves me nearly every
week. The light airy lilt in her accent is a godsend to me. He won't turn her
away,
he can't.
She's his alibi for his public persona. As much as he
wanted to, he couldn't take me away from this place, the house I had grown up
in, the town that knew my parents, the people that asked questions. To everyone
that I used to know I was that girl who's parents had died. That girl that
couldn't cope with the tragedies life had thrown at her. I was the town
recluse, hidden away, smothered by her own grief. It often made me wonder how
dense people were. Four years and no one had thought to check. Even this woman
that turned his attention from me, as grateful as I was to her, had she not
wondered even once?
Maybe people were so caught up in their own
lives, their own drama's, that I was but an after thought, a niggling in their
brain to ask the question that never gets asked,
what ever happened to Arya
Heart?
I had trouble keeping the grin off my face.
I was severely disappointed in myself.
I had been left to stew for longer in the
now cold water while he'd led her to the living room.
I'd have sat there for weeks. Freezing, my
appendages turning numb one by one, if only it meant he would leave me alone.
I heard the glug of the wine bottle and the
chink of glasses, soft feminine laughter and husky male appreciative chuckles.
I think I may have even relaxed somewhat.
My shoulders were less strained than usual, the muscles surrounding my shoulder
blades less bunched. This is what she gives me. This is why I am so indebted to
her; she gives me freedom. Even for just one night, the freedom to breathe.
A door swung on its hinge and I heard his
departing, "one moment Clara", before his footsteps headed in my
direction. I thought him rather brave this evening. To leave me in the bath in
full view should she have needed the bathroom. He normally would never be this
disorganised, this was quite the risk for him. It must have been a complete
surprise that she arrived.
He appeared in the doorway, fists clenched
and jaw locked. I could see his frustration out of the corner of my eye and it almost
made me laugh in smugness.
He couldn't have his pet prize tonight, it
was taken away from him and now he pouts like a child.
"It seems our plans must change for
this evening. Get out of the tub, pumpkin; I can't get my shirt wet. "
Our plans. Ours....as if I want this...as
if she's ruining my fun, not just his.
I heave myself up as quickly as possible,
my arms are weak and struggling to hold my weight. I am weak.
He hisses and taps his foot
impatiently."Quickly please, I do not expect to have to ask again. "
"Yes Sir, I'm sorry." The words
nearly stick in my throat when I force myself to flash him as I throw a leg
over the side of the bath and pull myself to standing. I am eager to be locked
inside my cell. I will endure many things for this reason. A room originally
made to be my prison has become a safe haven, a room where I am locked behind a
steel door, nothing can touch me there. It is a hundred times better than where
I had thought I would be tonight.
He moves quickly to drain the bath as I dry
myself off and slip the nightie back over my head. He pushes me hurriedly
towards the hall and I nearly fall over my own feet when they don't move fast
enough. The nightie is loose and sags over my chest, it doesn't look like he'll
take the time to tie the back up again. I hold it up with one hand attempting
laughably to save my dignity. A dignity long since lost.
He grabs my arm in a tight clasp and hauls
me faster towards my cell. The keys are already in his hand and I know even
though he's slightly panicking at the thought of being caught, of his persona
slipping so drastically, he is also experiencing a cheap thrill at the rush of
adrenaline.
He swings the door wide and launches me
through the doorway, his grip changes to around my neck, squeezing lightly,
enough so that the pressure is uncomfortable for my breathing. Permanent marks
are not acceptable on my skin, but he has no qualms in regards to bruising.
"I'll be back for you soon, " he
hisses at me."You had better be my perfect little pet when I return, the
wait will just serve to frustrate me more."
This is a warning I'm taking seriously and
my rotten heart sinks a little. My reprieve will be short and ultimately will
only prove to be worse in the end. She's never interrupted his time with me
before, perhaps messing with his schedule wasn't such a good thing for me after
all.
When the turn of the lock signifies his
retreat I sink to the floor and curl my knees to my chest to wrap my arms
around them. I pretend my own touch is comforting and that it doesn't disgust
me as much as anyone else's does. It's astounding how the simple act of skin to
skin contact can produce such violent reactions in the pit of my stomach. I
suppose it's understandable considering my current situation but I had always
thought of myself as rather level headed. I know that it wouldn't be him
touching me. My brain understands this yet still my skin crawls at just the
thought of contact and bile works it's way up my throat. I marvel at the human
body and the conditioning responses it learns; he has ruined me for life and no
others revenge will ever feel as exhilarating as mine.
I lay there for a while. An hour, a few
hours, could be either. My mind drifts and weaves a world deep in my
subconscious. I see and hear nothing from beyond my prison as my imagination
runs riot and I see only dream opponents and hear only dream words.
The scratching invades my mind slowly and
it troubles me at first. I cannot understand how the sound made its way into my
dream-world, a place only I have control over. So slowly that it makes me
ashamed of my senses, the sound interrupts my distraction and I'm brought back
into the room. It's the sound of nails against the heavy steel door. I can
barely make it out and yet it's a continuous, monotonous sound like a tree
branch against a window in the wind, that is odd enough in this quiet house to
get my attention.
Had I not been so distracted, I may have
had longer then a passing thought on how the signaller was aware of my
exceptional hearing.
I moved my head slightly towards the door
in confusion, a frown gracing my forehead and the nightie rustling slightly
against the floor at my movement. The scratching stops almost immediately and
my heart pumps hard once in response.
I rise slightly and carefully crawl my way
to the door, trying to see through the slit at the bottom, though the lack of
light proves my attempt useless. Even so I press my face to the floor and try
to make out the shifts in shadows listening intently for that scratching.
"I know you're there."
The whispered voice has me sucking in a
breath and I whip my head back scuttling like a frightened rabbit away from the
door. My panting breath takes a while to get under control and I nearly laugh
at myself. Really? After everything, this is what frightens you? The whisper
comes again and this time I'm more prepared for it.
"I know you're there. I've known for
some time. I will get you out I promise, Arya."
My gasp this time is audible probably even
to the voice beyond the door.
"How?"
My answer is low and soft yet somehow I
know that they'll hear me and even more, that they will understand what I'm not
asking: how do they know me?
"We never forgot you, Arya. I have
been trying to get to you for a long time. That time is near, believe me I will
get you out and you will never have to return."
The whisper was female I realised. Such
pretty words. I wondered what game this was and what my punishment would be.
"You have suffered much...We have
suffered much. I have done things I am not proud of to be close to you."
That voice.
I knew that voice.
"Clara?" My question was
incredulous. I had always thought it insanity that a women so close to him
could not see the sickness just under the surface.
"Yes," she paused in her answer
as if ashamed to verify my thought. She had nothing to be ashamed of, I had her
beat hands down on shame.
"I have to go I don't want him to
wake up and find me gone. I promise, Arya, I will come back for you, I just had
to let you know that you aren't alone any more."
I could have cried. Honest to God cried.
I hadn't cried for years, it was such a
pointless endeavour when it changed nothing. But this woman's words, a few
simple words nearly brought me to tears. I couldn't speak over the tightness in
my throat but needed to force something out in acknowledgement. A whispered
"thank you" was all I managed before reaching out to the door that
I'd unknowingly gotten closer to and placing a hand on the cool steel, I
followed the sound of retreating, light footsteps.
Someone knows about me.
The thought was astounding. I sat in the
dark. Cool cement floors freezing my bare feet to numbness, but a spark deep
inside flared bright and warming, a dangerous spark that I couldn't stop no
matter how much I willed it.
A spark of hope.