‘Looks like you’re washing your hair.’
I stare at him for a moment, my heart beating fast, in heightened threat mode. I wonder if I can surprise him, push past him, or strangle him with the shower cord. But my hands are frozen across my breasts and genitals in defence, while the water runs on.
He waves the bottle at me again. ‘You can’t use soap. Makes the scalp itchy.’
I reach out a hand and take the bottle. Then he shuts the shower door.
Yet he is obviously watching. Because he knew I was washing my hair. I want to curl up in the corner of the shower enclosure and cry. Become invisible. But he would see my tears. Each one would probably arouse him. Give him a sense of pleasure in defeating me. However vulnerable I feel I cannot let him see me that vulnerable. I must remain calm. The tears must wait until I get back to my room. Just focus on the fact that Cara, too, must have survived this experience. Or is about to have it. Use the shampoo then place it on a ledge, at head height, so Cara will not have the indignity of having the shower door opened on her. Or having to bend over to pick up the bottle, observed by the Captor. I want to scream at him, over the noise of the shower: perv on my daughter in this way and I will kill you. Somehow. But I can’t. Because he cannot know that I know she is here. That I have an ally. We each have an ally.
So, instead, I just perform a perfunctory wash of my hair and my body. I pretend I am one of those women in the bathroom commercials, advertising shower suites or shampoo. Except they always seem to have a towel in the shower with them. When my shower ends, I will have to emerge dripping, cold and naked. I will need to beg the Captor for a towel. While he watches me. I shiver, even though the water is still warm.
The shower door opens again. Not a surprise this time. But not a treat either. He reaches past me, turns off the shower.
‘Don’t want to run out of hot water,’ he says.
Why? Is that an acknowledgement of Cara being here? Or does he want a hot and steamy shower after me? Enjoy himself where I have been?
He moves back from the shower unit again.
Is he going to do this every time? Reach over me like this? Can I bite his arm, really hard? Will that get me past him, out of the unlocked bathroom, to freedom? Shall I practise, later, in my room, how hard I can bite?
I adopt my new customary hand-to-breasts-to-genitals and wait for him to tell me what to do next.
He beckons me out of the shower. ‘We need to get you dry,’ he says.
He picks up a towel from the towel rail. It is worn, faded-looking. Years of use on him? Years more to follow?
I put out a hand, expecting him to pass the towel to me.
He doesn’t.
Instead, he envelops me in it.
Then he is rubbing me, all over, through the towel. He pinions my arms to my sides so I cannot resist. If I squirm, he will surely break an arm, a rib. He is close enough for me to headbutt. Could I do it, suddenly? Perhaps I could. Perhaps this is my chance, one I won’t get again. I can headbutt him and then rescue Cara.
I stand on tiptoes and thrust my head forward. I come in contact only with the air next to his skull. Before I can try again, he has grabbed my hair, pulled back my head, and has the other hand round my neck. The towel falls away.
‘None of that,’ he says.
I feel the pressure of his hand on my neck. Any tighter, and I’d say I was being strangled. That I’d die here in this bathroom. That Cara would never know why I was silent. Or that the Captor would come and make her shower in the room with my dead body still in it.
He pins me against the door and leans down to pick up the towel.
I have no choice but to stand there while this man that I hate rubs me down. And he seems to hate me too, because there is no sexuality to this drying. He is drawing the towel over me in a way that one might wipe a cloth over a kitchen cabinet to clean it, when really you are only cleaning it to avoid
I stare at him for a moment, my heart beating fast, in heightened threat mode. I wonder if I can surprise him, push past him, or strangle him with the shower cord. But my hands are frozen across my breasts and genitals in defence, while the water runs on.
He waves the bottle at me again. ‘You can’t use soap. Makes the scalp itchy.’
I reach out a hand and take the bottle. Then he shuts the shower door.
Yet he is obviously watching. Because he knew I was washing my hair. I want to curl up in the corner of the shower enclosure and cry. Become invisible. But he would see my tears. Each one would probably arouse him. Give him a sense of pleasure in defeating me. However vulnerable I feel I cannot let him see me that vulnerable. I must remain calm. The tears must wait until I get back to my room. Just focus on the fact that Cara, too, must have survived this experience. Or is about to have it. Use the shampoo then place it on a ledge, at head height, so Cara will not have the indignity of having the shower door opened on her. Or having to bend over to pick up the bottle, observed by the Captor. I want to scream at him, over the noise of the shower: perv on my daughter in this way and I will kill you. Somehow. But I can’t. Because he cannot know that I know she is here. That I have an ally. We each have an ally.
So, instead, I just perform a perfunctory wash of my hair and my body. I pretend I am one of those women in the bathroom commercials, advertising shower suites or shampoo. Except they always seem to have a towel in the shower with them. When my shower ends, I will have to emerge dripping, cold and naked. I will need to beg the Captor for a towel. While he watches me. I shiver, even though the water is still warm.
The shower door opens again. Not a surprise this time. But not a treat either. He reaches past me, turns off the shower.
‘Don’t want to run out of hot water,’ he says.
Why? Is that an acknowledgement of Cara being here? Or does he want a hot and steamy shower after me? Enjoy himself where I have been?
He moves back from the shower unit again.
Is he going to do this every time? Reach over me like this? Can I bite his arm, really hard? Will that get me past him, out of the unlocked bathroom, to freedom? Shall I practise, later, in my room, how hard I can bite?
I adopt my new customary hand-to-breasts-to-genitals and wait for him to tell me what to do next.
He beckons me out of the shower. ‘We need to get you dry,’ he says.
He picks up a towel from the towel rail. It is worn, faded-looking. Years of use on him? Years more to follow?
I put out a hand, expecting him to pass the towel to me.
He doesn’t.
Instead, he envelops me in it.
Then he is rubbing me, all over, through the towel. He pinions my arms to my sides so I cannot resist. If I squirm, he will surely break an arm, a rib. He is close enough for me to headbutt. Could I do it, suddenly? Perhaps I could. Perhaps this is my chance, one I won’t get again. I can headbutt him and then rescue Cara.
I stand on tiptoes and thrust my head forward. I come in contact only with the air next to his skull. Before I can try again, he has grabbed my hair, pulled back my head, and has the other hand round my neck. The towel falls away.
‘None of that,’ he says.
I feel the pressure of his hand on my neck. Any tighter, and I’d say I was being strangled. That I’d die here in this bathroom. That Cara would never know why I was silent. Or that the Captor would come and make her shower in the room with my dead body still in it.
He pins me against the door and leans down to pick up the towel.
I have no choice but to stand there while this man that I hate rubs me down. And he seems to hate me too, because there is no sexuality to this drying. He is drawing the towel over me in a way that one might wipe a cloth over a kitchen cabinet to clean it, when really you are only cleaning it to avoid
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