The coffin’s cracked open, He’s taunting me. Allowing a shimmer of hope into my head, luring me into barren escapes.
Crops, gags and other restraints are strewn across the cold floor; he usually locks them away. Away they go in a wooden box, painted a tasteless hot pink, adorned with the ever so ironic “For her pleasure only” and the crude depiction of a kiss—away they go, until the next morning, that is. I don’t know if I’m asleep or awake, but my nightmares are kinder than life and my throat burns while I suck up the last of yesterday’s rain from the cold stones of the damp donjon.
I get up and hang onto the arrow slit, the only gateway to the world. If I focus, I can hear the faint rumbling of a passing car, and if I reach out, I can slip my fingers between the bars. But the car doesn’t stop, and all I want to do is cry. I yearn for tears, but all I can do is wilt and now the lights are dimming. When the night falls and he takes me, he takes a bit, and then more. But I do not give in, not now and not ever, and I would give myself to Death instead, if need be.
I hear another car passing by. Hope catches in my throat, and the rumbling stops. I hear slamming doors and the shallow laughs of a couple. They will follow the path alongside the dungeon as they head for the pond, like I had been so many nights ago.
I cast my eyes over the accessories scattered on the ground. I could grab one, throw it through the slit and onto the ground, my deceitfulness away from His watchful eyes. I gather my strength and throw the crop, but I miss. I miss again, but third time’s the charm and gone is the crop. I run toward the arrow slit and slide my fingers through. They will hear the crop hit the ground and when they turn toward it they will see me, and they will find help .
I’ll come back home, sleep in my bed and wear my clothes—any clothes. Anything to stop the biting wind from freezing me to the core. My body is blue and white, bruised, frozen and dead. This wasted flesh, heap of nerves and cluster of bones I cannot call mine.
Sitting back on the ground, I hear distant laughters, their frantic race to the peak, some yesses and some mores, pleases and summonings of Gods. Then come their howlings and whinings, more vivid in my mind than my own thoughts. Their pleasure swirls around the place, oozing on the chains and vibrating through the wooden cross, long after their departure, but they will come back—they must.
I hear the creak of the opening coffin; light has almost completely vacated the room now, I haven’t moved since they left. He comes out, tall and thin, muscles tightening under his shriveled body, his blue veins undulating under his alabaster skin. He smiles and his teeth glisten. I whimper at the sight of them. I’m parched, slowly descending into madness.
“Have you been behaving, little doll?” he asks. He puts the gag back and I can taste the weeks of sweat and pain encrusted in the fabric. He won’t remove it unless I submit, that’s how he wants his perverse little game to play out. He wants me to submit to the pain, to give myself willingly until I belong to no one but him.
“Now where’s my crop, little doll? Did you throw it out? Does that mean you want bigger? All you have to do is ask.” A strike. His hand on my throat. “Bend to my will and we’ll be immortals.”
The lack of air is making my head spin, I’m suffocating. I stare at him and make my decision known. I’m ready. He smiles and frees my mouth, but I do not lower my gaze. I look deep into his eyes, shaking slightly, anchoring myself in him. I inhale, and I sink my teeth in his jugular.
I drain him of his blood, with the strength of my stolen nights. He screams, but I hold onto him with renewed force. I get up, and he scrambles at my feet. My fingers glide on his torso, seeking their prize, the key to the lock on the door. I am naked, slick from sweat and blood, warm in the veil of life that covers me. I open the door and leave, but like the young couple, I’ll be back. Maybe I’ll take them with me, with some luck.
