cheek, a quick whip-crack of his fingertips, then grabs her chin and tilts her head up so that she is looking him in the eyes. An uncaring cruelty floats in them and nothing more: pools of bad water. She hates them.
‘You don’t know?’
‘What?’
‘You don’t know what you’re sorry for?’
‘I’m . . .’ she says, and licks her lips. They are dry and cracked. ‘I’m sorry for running.’
‘You’re sorry for getting caught.’
‘No.’
‘Oh, you wanted to get caught?’
She turns her head and looks away. She can feel fresh tears welling in her eyes. She tries to blink them away. She doesn’t want to cry in front of him. She doesn’t want to be weak in front of him. He is a cruel man and weakness makes him angrier, more likely to attack.
‘You didn’t want to get caught.’
‘No.’
‘That is why you’re sorry.’
‘I don’t know.’
‘Well I do .’
With the last word he puts a fist into her stomach, punching all the air out of her. It leaves her in a single rush. If she weren’t strung up by the wrists she would curl into a fetal ball. Instead she swings and gasps for air like a fish on the end of a line.
Henry stands and watches her swing. Fists opening and closing.
‘You’ve made me very angry, Sarah.’
He has always called her Sarah. Both he and Beatrice. Another way of torturing her. Another way of confusing her. Of making her confused about who and what she is.
She is just getting her breath back when Henry grabs her by the hips and stills her swinging. He looks at her in silence.
Then: ‘What do you have to say for yourself?’
She breathes in and out, chest heaving. Her stomach is a tight, cramped knot.
‘My daddy’s coming,’ she says.
‘What?’
‘I called my daddy and told him everything. You better just let me go. If you don’t he’s going to, he’s going to get you and he’s going to—’
‘Lies!’ Violence like a large wave crashing upon a beach. She flinches away but does not break eye contact. ‘You’re lying,’ he says. ‘Tell me you’re lying.’
She shakes her head. ‘He’s going to get you,’ she says.
‘Henry?’ Beatrice’s voice stumbling down the stairs.
‘What?’
‘You’re gonna be late for work.’
He looks at his watch and curses under his breath. ‘I’ll be right up,’ he says.
He grabs Maggie by the waist and lifts her off the hook and sets her down on the cold concrete floor. Then he unties her wrists and makes four loose loops of the bloody rope.
She looks down at her wrists and sees the shape of the rope imbedded in her skin. She pushes herself backwards until she is up against the wall. She looks up at him, awaiting some final act of violence. It does not come.
He nods to the rusty sink in the corner and says, ‘Wash up before Bee brings you supper.’ Then trudges halfway up the stairs before turning around again. ‘You’ve broken Bee’s heart with your behavior. All she wants is a daughter. She loves you, you know. Even though you’re a failure as a daughter, she loves you.’ Then he heads the rest of the way up the stairs, turns off the overhead light, and closes the door. A moment later, the sound of a deadbolt sliding into place.
The only light left in the basement is the laundry-water gray of late afternoon coming in through the basement’s sole window.
Her hands begin to throb with sharp pain as the circulation returns to them. She cries silently, trying to bend her fingers. It hurts too much, and she knows from experience that it will take several minutes for the pain to recede. And she knows, too, that the tide of pain hasn’t yet even fully come in.
But she knows something else as well: she almost got away.
After years in captivity she managed to get out. Hope which she’d long thought dead throbs hot in her chest. Even now, back here in the Nightmare World, there is a new sense of possibility. The world on the other side of the window is not unreachable. She has walked upon its
‘You don’t know?’
‘What?’
‘You don’t know what you’re sorry for?’
‘I’m . . .’ she says, and licks her lips. They are dry and cracked. ‘I’m sorry for running.’
‘You’re sorry for getting caught.’
‘No.’
‘Oh, you wanted to get caught?’
She turns her head and looks away. She can feel fresh tears welling in her eyes. She tries to blink them away. She doesn’t want to cry in front of him. She doesn’t want to be weak in front of him. He is a cruel man and weakness makes him angrier, more likely to attack.
‘You didn’t want to get caught.’
‘No.’
‘That is why you’re sorry.’
‘I don’t know.’
‘Well I do .’
With the last word he puts a fist into her stomach, punching all the air out of her. It leaves her in a single rush. If she weren’t strung up by the wrists she would curl into a fetal ball. Instead she swings and gasps for air like a fish on the end of a line.
Henry stands and watches her swing. Fists opening and closing.
‘You’ve made me very angry, Sarah.’
He has always called her Sarah. Both he and Beatrice. Another way of torturing her. Another way of confusing her. Of making her confused about who and what she is.
She is just getting her breath back when Henry grabs her by the hips and stills her swinging. He looks at her in silence.
Then: ‘What do you have to say for yourself?’
She breathes in and out, chest heaving. Her stomach is a tight, cramped knot.
‘My daddy’s coming,’ she says.
‘What?’
‘I called my daddy and told him everything. You better just let me go. If you don’t he’s going to, he’s going to get you and he’s going to—’
‘Lies!’ Violence like a large wave crashing upon a beach. She flinches away but does not break eye contact. ‘You’re lying,’ he says. ‘Tell me you’re lying.’
She shakes her head. ‘He’s going to get you,’ she says.
‘Henry?’ Beatrice’s voice stumbling down the stairs.
‘What?’
‘You’re gonna be late for work.’
He looks at his watch and curses under his breath. ‘I’ll be right up,’ he says.
He grabs Maggie by the waist and lifts her off the hook and sets her down on the cold concrete floor. Then he unties her wrists and makes four loose loops of the bloody rope.
She looks down at her wrists and sees the shape of the rope imbedded in her skin. She pushes herself backwards until she is up against the wall. She looks up at him, awaiting some final act of violence. It does not come.
He nods to the rusty sink in the corner and says, ‘Wash up before Bee brings you supper.’ Then trudges halfway up the stairs before turning around again. ‘You’ve broken Bee’s heart with your behavior. All she wants is a daughter. She loves you, you know. Even though you’re a failure as a daughter, she loves you.’ Then he heads the rest of the way up the stairs, turns off the overhead light, and closes the door. A moment later, the sound of a deadbolt sliding into place.
The only light left in the basement is the laundry-water gray of late afternoon coming in through the basement’s sole window.
Her hands begin to throb with sharp pain as the circulation returns to them. She cries silently, trying to bend her fingers. It hurts too much, and she knows from experience that it will take several minutes for the pain to recede. And she knows, too, that the tide of pain hasn’t yet even fully come in.
But she knows something else as well: she almost got away.
After years in captivity she managed to get out. Hope which she’d long thought dead throbs hot in her chest. Even now, back here in the Nightmare World, there is a new sense of possibility. The world on the other side of the window is not unreachable. She has walked upon its
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