scratches the knife across her lower back. She feels the stinging burn and wishes she could keep her mouth closed.
“ Say it,” he seethes into her ear. “Say it.”
“ Vincent Severity!” she shouts. But it’s half-hearted. It isn’t his name that stops the plague gods. Shouting his name doesn’t make her feel good on the inside. It makes her feel tainted.
“ See that?” he says. “See how much I love you? You know how long I spent makin this room? Makin it just for you. Them’s fifty sun lamps up there on the ceilin all ready to make you as tan as my Wanda. Know how long it took to wire all that shit up? Get on in there.”
He shoves her into the room and points the knife between her legs. “And Wanda never had no landin strip either. Nope. She liked a big ole bush. So we’ll have to fix that up to.” Then he slams the door and shoots the bolt into place.
She collapses into the middle of the floor, thinking she has never felt so lost, alone, and humiliated. Drowning in doom on the surface of the sun. She wonders how crazy Vincent really is. And she wonders how she is going to get out. The room is very hot and she feels the sweat that has never stopped continue to pour out of her.
6.
She has no idea how long she’s been in the room. The lights come on and go off at irregular intervals, Vincent controlling them with an outside switch. Although Amber figures he is in a hurry to make her tan, presumably so he can fuck her and convince himself he is fucking Wanda, he apparently does not want her to get sunburned. Over time, she feels her skin grow warm and taut. Sometimes he comes in and throws bite-size food at her as hard as he can. She never eats it in front of him. But when he leaves the room, she crawls around and gobbles it up, eating it like a wild and starving animal which, in a sense, she has become.
She can’t stop shouting the names and she has many small cuts to prove it. And when he turns on the lights and she starts to sweat, the sweat runs into the cuts and she has to toss around on the floor because she can’t wipe it away with her hand. Somewhere along the line the duct tape was replaced with actual hand and ankle cuffs. For a long time, the thought of escaping the tape had been the only thing keeping her from giving up all hope. Now she doesn’t even have that to look forward to.
She hates the sight of Vincent and can’t stand to say his name. Every day, sometimes a few times a day, he comes in—sliding the door open and squinting against the harsh light and he reaches behind himself, his hand first missing the door handle before finally seizing it and pulling it just closed enough so she can’t go charging out. And he shouts at her while the pelted food smacks against her burning skin, “You ain’t tan! You ain’t nearly tan enough!”
She could have told him that girls like her don’t typically tan—they redden. And then the red goes away and they are as pale as they ever were. But Vincent carries on with his savage dream.
In the room, Amber has a lot of time to think and, naturally, everything she thinks about involves her escape. One day, Vincent had come into the bright room and dragged her into the bathroom where he held her head over the bathtub and bleached her dark hair. He had to lean over her, against her, to do it, and she could feel his hardness through his jeans. That was when she realized she was becoming more attractive to him and it scared the hell out of her more than anything else he had done so far.
7.
She feels a sense of being out of control, like she’s racing toward something she can’t stop. She figures she only has a couple of days. A couple of days until she is just another Wanda. Maybe that will buy her a certain amount of freedom but she can’t think of what she’ll have to do for that. The thought of Vincent touching her, let alone fucking her,
“ Say it,” he seethes into her ear. “Say it.”
“ Vincent Severity!” she shouts. But it’s half-hearted. It isn’t his name that stops the plague gods. Shouting his name doesn’t make her feel good on the inside. It makes her feel tainted.
“ See that?” he says. “See how much I love you? You know how long I spent makin this room? Makin it just for you. Them’s fifty sun lamps up there on the ceilin all ready to make you as tan as my Wanda. Know how long it took to wire all that shit up? Get on in there.”
He shoves her into the room and points the knife between her legs. “And Wanda never had no landin strip either. Nope. She liked a big ole bush. So we’ll have to fix that up to.” Then he slams the door and shoots the bolt into place.
She collapses into the middle of the floor, thinking she has never felt so lost, alone, and humiliated. Drowning in doom on the surface of the sun. She wonders how crazy Vincent really is. And she wonders how she is going to get out. The room is very hot and she feels the sweat that has never stopped continue to pour out of her.
6.
She has no idea how long she’s been in the room. The lights come on and go off at irregular intervals, Vincent controlling them with an outside switch. Although Amber figures he is in a hurry to make her tan, presumably so he can fuck her and convince himself he is fucking Wanda, he apparently does not want her to get sunburned. Over time, she feels her skin grow warm and taut. Sometimes he comes in and throws bite-size food at her as hard as he can. She never eats it in front of him. But when he leaves the room, she crawls around and gobbles it up, eating it like a wild and starving animal which, in a sense, she has become.
She can’t stop shouting the names and she has many small cuts to prove it. And when he turns on the lights and she starts to sweat, the sweat runs into the cuts and she has to toss around on the floor because she can’t wipe it away with her hand. Somewhere along the line the duct tape was replaced with actual hand and ankle cuffs. For a long time, the thought of escaping the tape had been the only thing keeping her from giving up all hope. Now she doesn’t even have that to look forward to.
She hates the sight of Vincent and can’t stand to say his name. Every day, sometimes a few times a day, he comes in—sliding the door open and squinting against the harsh light and he reaches behind himself, his hand first missing the door handle before finally seizing it and pulling it just closed enough so she can’t go charging out. And he shouts at her while the pelted food smacks against her burning skin, “You ain’t tan! You ain’t nearly tan enough!”
She could have told him that girls like her don’t typically tan—they redden. And then the red goes away and they are as pale as they ever were. But Vincent carries on with his savage dream.
In the room, Amber has a lot of time to think and, naturally, everything she thinks about involves her escape. One day, Vincent had come into the bright room and dragged her into the bathroom where he held her head over the bathtub and bleached her dark hair. He had to lean over her, against her, to do it, and she could feel his hardness through his jeans. That was when she realized she was becoming more attractive to him and it scared the hell out of her more than anything else he had done so far.
7.
She feels a sense of being out of control, like she’s racing toward something she can’t stop. She figures she only has a couple of days. A couple of days until she is just another Wanda. Maybe that will buy her a certain amount of freedom but she can’t think of what she’ll have to do for that. The thought of Vincent touching her, let alone fucking her,
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