I think I was gone for a few weeks.
I can’t tell now how much time passes because of the pain. It makes me weak. It makes me feel a fucking disgusting wave of gratitude when he helps me sit up to eat. I hate his hands on me, sterile as his movements may be. 

When he touches me I feel so wholly wretched that I want to vomit again, but he’s given me some thing to suppress that action. Or, rather, gave me to someone to train away the repulsion. Living in his basement is so much better than the place he sent me I can’t help but feel…better.

I don’t want to talk about where he sent me, or whom he sent me to. If there was a true devil he would wince at the place I went to. The man with the drill makes all alternate descriptions of hell seem silly and obscure.

I know what hell will feel like now.

The pain wasn’t the only thing. It was his words during the times of torment that seem so supernaturally accurate. How did he know so much about me? Are all people built of the same stuff, the same fears and self-doubts, or did he have help from the man upstairs?

Now I know I’m on some sort of medication. I’m comparing these two sick fuckers to biblical figures. I’m scared now, ok? I’m fucking terrified of going back to the Man with the Drill and my brain is misfiring in all sorts of directions. I have to believe in something, and I’m sorry to say that God doesn’t factor into this at all. God did not make this man take me off the map, he did not encourage the Man with the Drill to teach me fear, he didn’t do a damn thing.

If there is a God, he’s just sitting there watching this and I’m so fucking angry at him that I don’t even want to hope for his intervention. Too late, God. Too fucking late. They broke me down and you, you sat back and watched. You watched and did nothing.

Tom was there with me instead, keeping my mind together until the last few days when I lived like a sick dog and said yes and please and anything I thought would stop the pain. I made promises so fucking sick I can’t even write them down, but I made them. I would have said or done anything to stop the pain. 

Tom, I’m sorry. I lied because it hurt so much, I lied and betrayed you. I can only hope they leave you out of this. These men are evil and all I can still hope for is that they have no interest in you. You’re a symbol to them, nothing more, something they can scare me with by mentioning you, and it’s my fault. I let them into my brain because I couldn’t stop myself from asking for you, and I am so so sorry.

The good news is, you’re not here. The bad news is, I wanted you to be. I wanted company. It makes me sick, but I wanted you here with me more than anything and I couldn’t shut up about it. 

Please don’t come here. Please don’t be upstairs melting into a bathtub. Please be alive. Please, Tom, please.
I can’t keep track of time. I’ve been in this place long enough that he’s changed the sheets more than I can count. Of course, when I first came back, the sheets would be drenched in sweat and the drainage from my wounds rather quickly, so that doesn’t help.

I used to count the days by way of the morning tea he brings down every day, but I also had trouble eating for a while, my mouth was swollen shut, and tea was the only thing I could keep down.

I must look terrible. I lost weight, a lot of it, and now the clothing he brings me is a size or two lower than I wore before. I know that because he forgot to cut the tags off a few pairs of pants. Yes, he cuts the tags off my pants, because any information from the outside is somehow toxic in his mind. He’s very shrewd about that. I ask him how the weather is and he shakes he head. He doesn’t want me knowing anything he doesn’t intend to tell me himself.

So he dresses and feeds me like an infant. He portions out the toilet paper for the small commode that I am allowed to use only when he unlocks the door to the small bathroom adjacent to my bedroom. I understand that too. He doesn’t want me stuffing paper into the toilet, causing a flood. When I have my period again, and that takes a long while, I sobbingly ask for tampons. He hands them out one at a time, checking each one before and after I use it. Sick fucker.

I ask for exercise too, and he thinks about that for a long while before coming to what I can only imagine is a heartbreaking decision for him. He decides to let me out of my room, out of the basement. He brings down instruments of bondage in a plain paper bag (heaven forbid I know where he shops for his Girl Pet), handcuffs and a blindfold made of softened leather. They look used and it occurs to me I’m not the first girl to ask for such accommodations.

I knew I wasn’t the first a long time ago, actually. He treats me like something rare and fragile, but there are signs all around the room, too small and fleeting for him to notice, because he’s not in here all day every day. He doesn’t spend enough time down here to crave interaction with a ghost.

There are fingernail scratches on the bedpost, not even marring the paint, just small indentations in the surface. My fingertips dance across them late at night when the lights are out and there’s no moonlight breaching the small, high window. I don’t think I made those indentations, even when my brain stopped working. I think She put them there to remind me that awful as this is, we are not alone. There was someone here before me, and probably someone here before Her. She knew there would be another, and she left her mark.

In any case, the handcuffs and blindfold are not new; they’ve been used before. I can smell the scent of another’s sweat on them, even under the oil he used to clean them. Or maybe I’m imagining this just to feel less alone. In any case…he tells me that he has a gag as well, and he will use it only if I’m fool enough to make a lot of noise, although I could scream all night and not disturb another soul. There’s no one within earshot of his property, he says.

I believe him.

It takes a certain amount of money and influence to even begin considering keeping a girl for one’s own amusement, and I can only assume he’s taken every step of the process under deep consideration.

 He cuffs me and blindfolds me as I sit on the bed, not even bothering to struggle, because this is the first time since I’ve been here that I’ve been outdoors

 When he sent me to the Man with the Drill, he parked his van flush with the kitchen door, I remember that part vaguely, and carried me over his shoulder from one enclosure to another. He drove for what seemed like hours to the house (lair? Den?) of the Man with the Drill and parked in the garage. I could smell gasoline and flesh from the minute he opened the doors to deliver me.

I have to stop. I have to stop remembering that part of my life.
Outdoors. He walks me up the stairs in front of him, hands cuffed and eyes covered by a used fetish mask, and presses me to the side of the stairwell in order to open the door at the top. He never leaves any door unlocked. Even the door to my room was duly locked behind me; I could hear him clicking it in that obsessive-compulsive manner of his. He takes no chances. 

When we walk from the stairwell to the door outside, he walks beside me like an orderly navigating a patient. I know that walk from my job at the nursing home. He puts one hand on my waist, one on my shoulder, and leads me to the door.

I can already smell the night. It is nighttime, I’m sure of that much. When he opens the door, I nearly lose myself in the smell of the grass, and the air, the sweet smell of summer nights! Tears fall from under my blindfold, and I take a shuddering breath.

How do I describe that moment? I was blind and bound and still felt so indescribably attuned with the sensation of the night. I asked him to remove my shoes and he does so cautiously. My first step in the dewy grass was like waking from a nightmare. I kept myself from sobbing only because it would hinder breathing in the night air.

He takes me around the yard like a pony, leading me by my hands. His breathing, I notice, is heavy as well. I wonder if he enjoys this, or if he’s simply scared of losing me somehow in the darkness.

-You could let me go. You could un-cuff me and let me go tonight and I wouldn’t say anything. I would just go home

-That’s not true.

-I could do it. I really could…please.

-Don’t…

-Please. I could go home.

-You are home.
That’s all I can take. The grass underfoot is no longer luxurious, it’s a fucking lie and a trap and I don’t want to be outside anymore. I can’t pretend for another moment that this is anything but a sugar cube for a broken nag. I say as much and his breathing stops for a moment. He’s holding his breath and then he leads me back inside, locking each door before and after me, and takes me back to my room. My room that is not my own, the room he seems to consider a gift but is in all actuality a prison and a trap and a lie.

I go to bed soon after, ignoring the dinner he brings back to me after a while. I go to sleep and thankfully, although I have no clue whom to thank since God and I are no longer on speaking terms, I dream. 

 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

When I dream, Tom is there. I embrace him immediately, and as usual, he hugs me back, kissing me on top of the head. I imagine his entire body there, head to toe, lingering on his soft hair, his strong arms, and the way he and I curve together in a hug as if we were made for one another. I fit perfectly in his arms.

I step back to look at him, worried that somehow the Man with the Drill has gotten to him, ruined his physique somehow. I’m looking for scars, wounds, blood. There is none. Just my Tom, with the wild hair and sweet smile, holding out his hands to me.

The Man with the Drill appears, a shadowed hulking terror in my periphery, and my breath catches in my throat. I want to scream, to tell Tom to leave now, just let him have me and get the fuck out of here, but Tom turns, catches sight of the figure in the distance. Unbelievably, he laughs, just once. He holds up his hand as if he were swatting a fly, and the Man with the Drill flickers in and out of existence. Tom leans forward and blows on the figure like a man coaxing a fire. The Man with the Drill dissipates slowly, nothing now but a black smoky sliver of a nightmare. I can barely make out the shape that so terrified me.

Tom turns back to me, smiling as if amused. I’m still catching my breath out of pure terror.

-Why so scared, jellybean?

-That man….

-That wasn’t a man. That was a monster. And monsters aren’t real. 
I try to think of a reasonable argument, and fail. Looking down at my hands and feet and every expanse of smooth skin, I’m completely healed. There’s no sign of the horrible work wrought on my flesh. Words leave me. I hang my head and cry without reservation.

-I told him about you. I…I told him so many secrets. Our secrets

-We’ll make new ones. Better ones.

-How will I ever get to see you again? I’m locked up. I’m locked away and no one can find me.

-I found you, didn’t I? I’m here now.

-Baby, you’re a dream.

-Nobody’s perfect.

I laugh. Around us, the darkness is easing into twilight, and the barren black expanses of my mind are dotted with flowers made of light, little twinkling starlets made of dew and teardrops.

-I’m so scared of waking up. I might forget this.

-That’s the future. Worry about now. Worry about the time we have together before sunrise.

-I’m scared of….

-Stop it. Stop it right fucking now. Fear is his weapon. So it cannot be your tool.

-What do you mean? All I have is fear.

-You have memories. You have hope. You have the strength that I know is within you. And you have me. I can always visit you here.

-Well then….

In my mind the ground is soft, covered in thick moss and fragrant grasses. The air is warm and fresh. I take Tom’s hand and place it on my hip. He smiles again, and I lean forward to whisper in his ear.

-Let’s make a memory.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

I wake up happy for the first time since I came here. I can still feel Tom’s hands upon my skin, and when the Man Upstairs brings me breakfast, I’m still smiling. He seems to take this as a good omen, and smiles himself as I eat the eggs, toast, and sausage he brought me. He says today is an important day, and he would like to invite me upstairs for tea. 

-A teatime for your dollies, eh?

-What?

-Nothing. Sure, I’ll go.

-Good. I have something to tell you.

-You’re insane?

He ignores this last barb and begins to gather up the breakfast dishes with a sigh. He turns once he reaches the door, and looks me over, brow furrowed

-You look…you seem happier. I’m glad. And once I explain everything to you you’ll be much happier here.

-Doubtful.

He sighs again and turns back towards the door, click click click click click click click click. He turns again as he’s closing the door and seems about to speak, but thinks better of it and closes the door behind him. 

Hours pass slowly here. I can hear him sometimes moving about in what I assume is the kitchen, although I’d never tell him that this room isn’t completely soundproof. I’m sure he knows, because there were nights when I got back from the Man with the Drill that I screamed in frustration and pain. I’m sure he heard me then. But he pretended that everything was fine when he brought me my meals, bandaged my wounds, and sat beside me as I slept for hours. The fact is that wherever I am, there’s no such thing as neighbors, so he doesn’t care how loud I am. I thought for a while that maybe I wasn’t the only person here, but when I came back it was clear that I was his one and only girl, his favorite toy, his trophy. He spends so much time taking care of me that it’s pretty unlikely there’s anyone else to be taken care of. 

In any case, time passes slowly, and all I have to do is explore my room and think. I’ve spent hours attempting to disassemble the bed, the nightstand, the lamp, but all the screws are glued into place and sanded smooth. I’ve spent even more hours looking for evidence of the girls here before me, but all I’ve found so far is the fingernail marks on the bed.

I refused at first to ask the Man for anything that would seem to be an indulgence, because I want to make it perfectly clear that all I want is to get the fuck out of here, but I think I’m at the point where I will ask for books, just to have something to do besides tearing at my cage like a panicked bird. 

Finally, it’s the afternoon, and about an hour or so after bringing me lunch, the Man knocks at my door. I find that hilarious for some reason, and collapse on the bed in laughter. It still hurts to laugh, although the bruises on my ribcage are faint purple memories. He lets himself in as usual, despite the knocking, and asks me if I’m ok. I can hardly breath from the laughing, but I nod, and he stands awkwardly by the door as I gather myself up and sit on the bed. I hold out my wrists, expecting handcuffs. 

Sure enough, he has the cuffs and blindfold tucked under his arm.

-Is that really necessary? I’m going upstairs. I’ll be good.

He nearly blushes at my tone, both subservient and sardonic at once. I want him to be embarrassed. I want him to feel like an idiot for having the audacity to tie me up just for his own comfort. If we’re really so far from other people, then the handcuffs are superfluous.

-I’m afraid so.

-What could I do? Look at me. I can barely eat without wincing from the pain.

He flinches at this and shakes his head. Hesitantly, with a look on his face of abject misery, he cuffs me and starts to put on my blindfold. This time I try a different tactic.

-I’d like to see the house where I’m living. How can I feel comfortable when I don’t even get to see where I live?

He stares at me, tears welling in his eyes. He puts the blindfold in his pocket and helps me up from the bed. He leads me to the door, and actually allows me to walk up the stairs ahead of him. I can hear him locking the door behind me, but I’m to entranced by the luxury of being able to look at something other than that damn room. The stairs are wooden and creaky, but sturdy. The walls are stone, and cool to the touch. I brush my hands along the stone as I ascend the staircase. He’s breathing heavily behind me, and reaches ahead of me just as I come to the top of the stairs. He unlocks the door and pushes it outward.

He is right beside me and for a moment I fight the urge to push him down the flight of stairs. I choose not to, not because I don’t want to hurt him, but because pushing him down the stairs wouldn’t hurt him enough. If I hurt him it must be in a way wherein he is so incapacitated that I can find a way to escape while he’s down for the count. Pushing him down the stairs would probably harm him a bit, but he’s a big guy, and I need more firepower than gravity can provide in order to hurt him enough.

-This way, please.

Before I even have a chance to explore the kitchen, he leads me through a doorway into what must be the living room. All at once I’m speechless.

The living room walls are dark panels of wood, and utterly festooned with mounted butterflies. Every possible surface is covered with shadow boxes, including the mantle over the fireplace. The coffee table is a series of boxes with a butterfly in each one, covered by a large panel of glass. The room would be grotesquely beautiful in any other setting, but to me it’s terrifying. If there’s any proof that this man is meticulous and merciless, it’s his living room.

He sits me down on the couch, and rushes to the kitchen to pour the tea. I’m honestly too overwhelmed by his collection to make any move towards freedom, but he monitors me anyway, leaning back every now at then from the kitchen counter to watch me. He’s cutting sandwiches, pouring tea, arranging cookies on a plate just so. I lean forward, moving my cuffed hands out of the way in order to look at the coffee table. The butterflies within are arranged in a rainbow, starting with a bright canary yellow and ending in the dark violet hue of an old bruise. They’re so beautiful and still that it’s almost hypnotic.

He puts a tray on the table, laden with tea and treats. My brief moment of facination dissipates, and suddenly I’m in a house with a stranger who steals women, who collects living things and keeps them for his own amusement, and who has something apparently important to tell me. It’s amazing how quickly terror appears, especially when I thought I was above the fear. Nope, I’m scared of him, and I have good reasons to be.

-Tea?

He pours me a cup of English tea, strong plain black tea that needs a good two lumps of sugar and cream to be drinkable. I take it as politely as possible, making every effort to show him how difficult it is to drink tea in handcuffs. I don’t spill anything, but I move slowly getting the sugar and cream, making little sounds of distress to emphize my point. He sees me struggle and sighs himself.

-I’m so sorry I have to keep you locked up.

-Really? Are you. You don’t seem to mind it.

-Once I explain everything…

-You don’t have anything to explain. You kidnapped me and you won’t let me go. That’s the whole story.

-It’s not that simple. Sandwich?

-Fuck the sandwich.

He winces, as he always does when I get mouthy and swear. I take the sandwich anyway; starving myself only leads to the Man with the Drill. I’m getting angry and when I get angry I upset him, and when he’s upset I get hurt or neglected. I feel like a whore pretending to be calm, but it’s also the sensible thing to do. I think of Tom and will myself to sip the tea, take a ladylike bite of the sandwich, and motion for him to continue.

-I didn’t kidnap you. I rescued you.

I hold back from screaming. I bite my tongue.

-You see, you’re very special….

From then on I’m listening, because the story he tells me in fascinating in its complexity and madness. He explains to me that some girls, not boys, only girls, are born special. These girls are not only beautiful but gifted in other ways, some are good at art, some are incredible mathematicians, and so forth. These girls grow up quickly, so by the time they’re little girls, say 7 or 8, they’re already mature enough to speak and interact on the level of adults. These girls are (and this part I suppose I already knew by reading Lolita) nymphets. They’re supposedly sexually precocious and desireable to adult men.

Now this is the important part. According to the Man Upstairs, there is a network of me who are sworn to protect these young nymphets until they come of age, and then taking on one nymphet to protect from the world. There are rapists and villans of all sorts who would happily take advantage of these beautiful prospects, but the Man Upstairs and his friends have made their lives’ goal to protect and covet these girls.

That’s where I come in. Apparently I am exceptionally beautiful and precious to the world. Its His job to protect me from the evil influence of men who might want to, say, fuck me or use me for their own pleasure.

-Bullshit.

Predictably, he winces.

-that’s utter bullshit. You didn’t protect me worth a damn. Look at my hands. Look at my feet. Look at…

-I’m sorry you had to visit the house of the crucible….

-Oh is that what it’s called? The crucible. How fucking literate. I’d call it the house of the wire and gasoline. I’d call it the house of fucking torture!

-It was necessary to keep you alive. You were dying.

-So what if I was? Who the fuck are you to decide if I live or die?

-I’m your guardian. You are my charge. I must protect you.

-Right. Right. In a fucking cellar. Gee whiz, thanks a bunch mister! I was a pretty-looking kid so you have every reason to lock me up in the basement. Good thinking!

-I ( he sighs again) never wanted it to be this way. I’m supposed….

-supposed to ruin my life? Good work. You did.

I’m too furious to keep talking, to utterly angry to even try and reason with him,. From what he says, he’s been in this group, this cult, for many years. I suppose theres a certain appeal to it for a sad lonely man. He gets to think of himself as a savior, and he also gets to have a pretty girl in his basement. It’s true that he’s never once taken this ‘arrangment’ to a sexual level, and for that I’m thankful. It doesn’t stop the fact thst I’ve been emotionally raped, physcologically and (by proxy) physically tortured, and detained by a man who thinks he’s doing this all for my own good. It makes it ten times harder to talk with him when I know he believes he has a duty to keep me here. It makes the prospect of a bloodless escape nigh impossible. I will have to kill him.