Part I
I had always liked chains. Not anymore. I
had enjoyed the cool feel of the metal as it wrapped itself around me. But not anymore. I used to hate my freedom and would chain
myself at every opportunity. But now, now...I longed for that freedom. The heavy
chain that was fastened around my wrists weighed down my arms. My shoulders
ached with the strain of carrying, dragging that weight around. I wanted to lie
down, to give my arms, my shoulders, my back a break, a respite from the burden
that it seemed like I had been forced to endure for days, weeks, months,
perhaps even years. How long was it in truth? I have no idea. I was completely
in the dark, literally. I had been deprived of any light. There were no windows
in this room that had become my prison. I never felt the sun on my face; never
saw the moon shining in the night sky. I saw...nothing.
I had no way to tell the passage of time.
I had nothing but my thoughts...and the chain that dogged my every movement.
Even the meals, if they could be described as such, did not come at regular
intervals. I was purposefully being even denied that one normality. Sometimes a
huge amount of food would be sent up, or down, I wasn't really sure, the dumb
waiter. At least that's what I thought it was. The reality could have been far
from that. I couldn't see. My hands had become my eyes, the only thing in which
to send information to my brain. I would check there often, that little recess,
for sustenance, but probably more for something to do than anything else. Sometimes,
only a small portion of food would be left and I would worry on those days,
worry about how much or how little of it I should actually consume. As I've
said, I never knew when I would get some more. As far as I could tell, who ever
had decided to keep me locked away in a cocoon of perpetually darkness and silence, didn't have a set schedule.
There was little to do, and on the days
when a lot of food was left, yes, I would play with it. A loaf of bread would
become a puzzle for me. I would tear away large pieces and then spend blocks of
time trying to fit them back together again, try to reassemble the chunks back
into some semblance of the original loaf. Pretzel sticks would become impromptu
There was never a shortage of water and
for that I was grateful. The stagnant atmosphere of this airless room created a
powerful thirst and I think that if I had been denied water, I would have gone
quite mad. How far I was currently from that state, I had no way of knowing. My
thoughts seemed to be fairly lucid, but who was I to judge? I had nothing to go
by. My past, my former self seemed to be such a shadow, a dream that was fading
more and more each day. And each day I wondered when I was going to awake and
realize that I remembered nothing about how life used to be, how I used to be.
Each day I tried to spend time in reflection, tried to fall asleep each night
thinking of the things that I used to do, normal things, like laundry, or house
cleaning, or even walking my dog. I know it sounds silly, but it was the little
things that I missed the most. I felt like I was being kept in a glass jar for
someone else's amusement. My very existence depended on the little dumb waiter
that shuttled life saving food and water to me. But not on a
regular schedule.
Some days I did experience hunger and I
would suck down large quantities of the water that never seemed to run empty.
That was the one thing I could depend on…I always had plenty of it, to drink…or
to wash. I was probably cleaner now than I had ever been. I had nothing to fill
my time with, especially when the food was scarce. So, what else was there to
do? I washed...and washed...and washed. I had gotten used to cold water
bathing. It was nothing to me now. The room was plenty warm, almost too warm. I
guess it had to be since I had neither clothing nor any blankets or covers in
which to cloak myself with. There was a time that I couldn't sleep without a
host of pillows surrounding and cradling my head. But I had learned to make do.
Well, learned is not exactly right. I did make do. I had no choice. I had a
bare room as far as I could tell. Nothing hung from the walls. There was
nothing but hard wood beneath my feet. There was no bed, there were no chairs,
no tables, nothing but smooth surfaces all around. That was my world.
I had long since given up hope of
anything changing. The anger at my circumstances only made it all the harder to
get through another day, or at least what I had now termed "day".
Some "nights" I slept better than others, but I think that it was due
to the fact that on those "nights", something special was slipped
into my food to ensure a soundless sleep. I would wake and find my nails
trimmed, my hair brushed out and rebraided. I would
find myself shaved...everywhere. Oh, I don't think that I was used sexually. I
would have felt the effects of that at some point. There would have been a
feeling of soreness or of having been stretched. There would have been. I would
also find the floors beneath my feet devoid of crumbs and other debris, mainly
dust and food scraps, my tic, tac,
toe board. I would find the smell in this little darkened chamber a bit
fresher, the hole in the floor cleaned of my excrement.
Someone was taking care of me. That much
I knew. I was healthy. I hadn't suffered so much as a sniffle since I had
gotten here. But the why of the whole situation, I just had
no answer for that. I sometimes would wonder if it would ever
change...if I would ever see the person who was responsible for it. Hell, I
wondered if I would see anything, anything at all again. Sometimes a vague and
unsettling thought would flit through my mind...would my eyes even work? Could
the muscles in the eyes cease to function without regular exercise? Would they?
I had never studied the workings of the human eye. Who would have thought that
that information would have come in handy? I certainly never had.
The day that I arrived here, it seemed so
dreadfully long ago, started out like any other day in my life had started.
There had been nothing in the days and weeks before that one blinding moment that
would have indicated anything other than a quiet end to a quiet day. Trust me.
I had thought about it...a lot. I had nothing else to do. My mind, my memories
were the only company I had. This place was sterile, devoid of anything, devoid
of any distractions. I used to hum and sing to myself, if for nothing else to
convince myself that I still possessed my voice, my ears. But after a few
weeks, I stopped even that…it just brought back too many memories and every
time I couldn’t remember the next line from a favorite song, I would get mad at
myself, rail against fate, against God. It got me nowhere. It served no point.
I had not been physically harmed in any
way whatsoever. In fact, I had been well taken care of...at least physically.
Even my abduction, my imprisonment had been handled gently, if such a thing is
possible. I didn’t recall feeling any pain, or even anxiety. The anxiety, the
fear...they came later...after I had been locked into this darkness...this
interminable darkness. Truthfully, I wasn’t even certain how it did go down.
Who ever my captor was, he or she knew a great deal about drugs, with their
effects, with how to mask them. I didn’t taste anything funny in my food that
day, and hadn’t since then, either. But I knew that I had been drugged, and I
knew that on occasion I was still drugged. For whatever reason, I was not
allowed to experience sensations...of any sort.
Maybe that was one of the reasons I
washed so much. I hoped to feel the coolness of the water upon my skin. The
water wasn’t cold, mind you. Oh, in my mind it was, but on my skin, it was
barely discernible, a pressure more than a sensation. The room was a bit
warm...well, even that is not accurate. Heat and cold, those sensations were,
at that point, all just in my mind, merely something that I longed to feel.
When I sipped the water, I could feel the moisture replenishing my dry mouth,
soothing my dry throat. But I couldn’t really feel it as it touched my lips, my
tongue, slid down my throat. It was room temperature, or whatever temperature
it was that managed to keep me from either feeling overly warm, or overly
chilled. If I was quiet and stood in the center of the room, I felt...well, I
didn’t feel. And I believed that was rather the whole point.
The only thing I felt was the chain, the
damned chain. It was the first thing I became aware of when I woke up here. And
really, it was the only source of true discomfort for me at all. I remembered
how cold my feet used to get, how cold my hands and fingers would get, how I
would trip over the keys of my computer as I typed an early morning or late
evening email. But not any longer...not any longer. I
was always comfortable…with that one exception. It was almost like I lived in a
state of homeostasis...a perfect balance. The only thing that upset that
balance was the chain; that was something I could never ignore, never forget.
Sometimes I would jump up and down just
to hear the clank clank clank
of it against the hardwood floor. It was a sound, something foreign to me,
something I hadn't enjoyed in a long time. It was a love/hate relationship. I
hated the chain...but it was the only thing that provided any sensation, any
stimuli in my otherwise deadened existence. I hated it. But it was all I had.
The more I thought of it, the more it
drove me batty. Some days, it was a monkey on my back. And on others, it was my
best friend, the only thing that let me know that I was still in the land of
the living...how living was anyone's guess. I gave up trying to figure it out
some time ago. It required too much energy, too much work. And
just tied my mind up in knots all over again.
I only knew a few things locked away in
the darkness like that. One of them was that the next day was going to be
exactly the same. The bland taste of the food would be the same, the quantity
might be different, but as I welcomed hunger, hunger being a sensation after
all, that never bothered me. The water would slip down my throat without me
ever tasting it, my eyes would pierce the darkness and not see a thing…and through
it all, a shadow in the unending pitch black of my world, the chain…pulling at
me, rattling, clanking…my only discomfort…my only solace.
***
Part II
More time passed. How much, I still had no
way of telling. The days rolled one into the other, slipping into history with
nothing to mark their passage. After I had been there what I now imagine to
have been about a year, I experienced a rare moment of anger, of defiance. I
wanted to feel, to laugh, to run and play, to experience life again. And I did
run, taking laps around the room, the chain, my ever present companion,
clanking loudly in protest. And I did laugh, though it sounded a bit hysterical
even to my own ears.
It wasn't long before exhaustion called a
halt to my antics. I had not exercised that vigorously in a long time and I
came to a sudden halt, standing there in the middle of the room, my chest
heaving from my exertions, a sheen of perspiration dotting my brow, coating my
skin. It took a few minutes for it to set in...that my
heart was beating rapidly, that I was sweaty and hot. I was hot. Everything
snapped instantly into focus. It must have been the increased blood flow to my
brain. Whatever it was, I had a moment of clarity the likes of which I had not
enjoyed since I had been taken. I was hot. I was hot!
I raced over to the two buckets of water
that were always present in that little recess in the wall. I reserved one
bucket for washing and one for drinking. I first dipped my cup into the bucket
on the right and gulped it down. I smiled in triumph. The water felt cool
against my lips, on my tongue. It felt refreshing as it traveled down my
throat. I had been right. The exercise had increased my body's
temperature...now, the water was significantly cooler. I picked up the wash
cloth that hung over the bucket on the left. I hurriedly immersed it in the
water and then wrung it out over my chest, letting the water dribble where it
would. The joy I felt at that moment can't be described. Goosebumps broke out
all over my chest. I shivered and jumped with the sudden and now alien chill.
Some would say that it was the endorphins from the exercise, but I knew better.
My euphoria couldn't be laid at their doorstep. It came from within. For that
moment, I had won. I had finally discovered something I could control, a
circumstance I could alter, could change.
That moment changed everything. My brain
started working again and I began looking at ways that I could take back my
life, on a limited scale. Some things were unavoidable, undeniable. I was never
going to get out of this stark prison. I was never going to know true freedom
again. But a caged bird merely needs to learn how to fly again, how to soar
within its confines. And I had just learned, I had
just found a way to experience freedom even while locked away, despite being
locked away. My soul rejoiced. My spirit sang. And I prayed. I dropped to my
knees and thanked the Lord Almighty for this wondrous gift. I hadn't talked to
God since I accepted that I was never again going to marvel at His creations...that
was quite some time ago. I struggled to remember the Lord's Prayer...whether or
not I got it right...well, I hoped that I had, but I was sure that even if I
hadn't, that God wouldn't mind overly much. We were finally talking again. And
I felt His grace and His peace fill me. It was the best day I had there...the
very best day.
That night when I laid down on the hard
floor, settling myself into the corner that I had come to associate as my bed,
I dreamt the dreams of angels. I slept peacefully, my dreams full of happy
thoughts...though I dared not question why these dreams contained no images of
my past life. They were more abstract, more feelings than concrete images. At
this point, I questioned little. I took what I could where I could. It was the
only way to keep drawing breath. But I swear to you, I felt the sun on my face
again and nothing could dim that pleasure...nothing...not even the darkness,
the cold, unyielding steel of the chain which held my hands at shoulder width,
which weighed them down, which reminded me at every turn were I was, what I
was...and what I was not.
The next day I awoke to such terrible aches
in all of my muscles. I groaned at the pain, at the fire lancing my muscles, at
their protestations every time I tried to move them. But I smiled, too. I
smiled. Every twinge of pain reminded me of my newfound freedom, of that one
blissful moment, reminded me of the joy of living. I had lived. I had lived. It
may have been born out of anger, at borderline hysteria, but it was born. And
to me, that was all that mattered.
I moved slowly that day, going about my
business. I ate, slept, played my tic, tac,
toe, sat in reverie, paced the room. I was not up for another bout of exercise.
I was in too much physical pain for that. And as much as I welcomed that pain,
embraced it, thanked God for it, I wasn't so stupid as to try it again. I
didn't want to truly hurt myself. I also didn't want to take advantage of this
gift. I wanted to save it for those moments when I needed it the most, those
moments when I prayed that I would fall asleep and never wake up. There were
many moments, many nights, when I begged for it, begged not to have to endure
another day, not to have to open my eyes to the continual darkness. I was
alive, but I wasn't living. I was drawing breath, surviving, but I wasn't
living.
The food was plentiful that day, and for
some reason, it tasted sharper, more flavorful. It was probably a left over
from the day before; everything seemed so much more acute. I had tasted life again
and I therefore fancied that in everything I did. As I laid down that night,
more tired than I had felt in a long time, my little brain was cooking up new
ways, new things to try to beat the system. I thought about yoga and
transcendentalism and wished that I had read more about it. I longed to have an
out of body experience. I longed to sink my toes in warm sand. I longed to
stick my nose in an opening rose bud and inhale deeply. I longed to even feel
the rain pour from the sky and wet my clothes clean through. I just
longed...for anything and everything that would put me back into life again.
What was I really doing here?
The following day, I awoke feeling
wonderful. All the aches that had been there the day before were no more and in
those drowsy moments before full consciousness descends, I wondered what I
would try that day. Jumping Jacks? Push-ups?
Sit-ups? More running? But my
smile faded as my nose picked up a scent that was unlike anything I could
recall smelling. It was pungent, antiseptic almost. I jolted up and slid
against the floor. What was that smell? My nose twitched and I felt fear. I
frantically clawed my way around the room, stumbling, angry at the chain
slowing me down. I ran my hands along everything, making sure that I was safely
in my room, that this smell wasn't a danger to me. I was frightened. Nothing
had changed for so long that I wasn't sure about what it could mean. I wasn't
sure what was going on.
My heart rate accelerated but this time it
wasn’t out of something that pleased me...this time it was panic. Finally, when
I had felt every inch of the room to my satisfaction, I huddled back in my
corner and tried to figure out what the smell was. And then I felt it...my
skin. My skin felt mildly oily and I raised an arm to my nose. The smell grew
stronger. I put my tongue to my skin and winced at the medicinal taste. I had
been rubbed down. And then, again, a moment of clarity. This was Ben Gay or
something like it. That was why the aches were surprisingly absent. The second
day after physical exertion was usually worse. Why hadn't I noticed it right
off? Why hadn't I put it together instead of racing around the room like a
maniac?
I cried out in terror, in agony, in despair.
I hadn't because those simple things were so far removed from me that they
hadn't even crossed my mind. And I wept for that. I wept because I was rapidly
losing touch with life. And a part of me had known it, at some level. How could
I not? I was playing tic, tac,
toe with oatmeal on a hardwood floor, for heaven's sake. How could I not know
that I was not the girl that I used to be? I was barely human, only my DNA
proclaimed my "civility". My actions were no longer that of an
educated young lady. Day by day I was being reduced to a beast, a captive
animal whose day revolved around it’s feeding. I wept.
I wept the better portion of the day. I felt like I was splintering and
fracturing as the truth...at the truth that I was finally able to acknowledge,
to give voice to, to admit.
I was an animal...I was an animal...I was an
animal....and I wept...I tore at the floor, at the walls. I banged my head
against anything and everything I could. I raised the chain and brought it down
time and time again. The loud clanking of it echoed off the walls,
hurt my ears. But I didn't care. Why should I? Did anything I did at that point
matter at all? There was no ending to my days, there was no ending to my
life...but there was an ending to my living...and that had happened on that
fateful day however long ago it was...however long ago it really was. And I
couldn't help but wonder how long it had been...how long it had been.
My hand reached down and touched my
privates...it was hairless, as I expected after a night where I had been
drugged. It was smooth as a baby's bottom. I toyed with my clit idly. I felt
nothing...not even a flicker and I wept more at that. I lay down and tried to
raise some kind of physical response from my body...I knew it should be
there...I knew it should be...but nothing sparked within me. My frustration level
grew...my anger grew...my despair grew...I was screaming, yelling, sobbing
violently, but I heard it not...I only knew that I was because my throat would
hurt so dreadfully the next day...but at the moment, I had no clue...had no
idea of how truly bestial I was behaving. But maybe that was my plan...to
behave the way I felt...like an animal...so far removed from humanity as to
make my humanity null and void...give my captor what they wanted...show him
that he had won...that he had finally taken all that I had to give.
And I hoped it was enough...I prayed that it
was enough and that tomorrow would bring a darkness that I wouldn't be
conscious of...wouldn't be conscious of because it was finally over...my soul
would finally be at peace and far from this room, far from this never ending
dark and void that had become my world, had become the cage that I was forced
to inhabit, to pace in and to chafe at...the prison that had become my life.
***
Part III
I had cried myself to sleep. I had slept a soul deep sleep, a sleep that only
comes from profound exhaustion. I was aware of nothing...no dreams...not the
hardness of the floors, not the presence of the chain. When I awoke, my head
hurt dreadfully. I chalked it up to the fury of emotions from the day before. I
felt shame at my behavior, at my weakness. I told myself that my predicament
wasn't so bad, that I could live out my days here without worry over whether or
not I would eat that day, at whether or not I would be hit by a car, that I
would fall ill. I was safe and protected. And that was more than most people
could say.
I pulled myself together and sat up. If I had found a way to experience joy
once, I could do it again. And I concentrated on that. The moments might be
fleeting, might be scarce, but some people never had true happiness. Mine had
had taken on an elemental level. I had been reduced to seeking my only joy in
the most basic of sensations...things that people took for granted, things I
used to take for granted. Was that really so dreadful? Was it?
I felt like a new person that day. All of the aches were gone, the medicinal
smell of the day before yet lingered, but it was soft, gentle, having faded to
a mere suggestion. I decided a bath was in order, but I stopped myself and
looked around. I searched the dark almost guiltily, fearing getting caught and
the nervous darting back and forth of my eyes was out of habit, a habit
unnecessary since my sight had been taken away. What was I supposed to see
exactly? It couldn’t see anything and yet I could. The dark had taken on a new
light. It was no longer dark in my mind. My eyes saw the shape of the room, saw
the smooth surfaces of the wall, saw a gleaming
hardwood floor. I couldn't see them, and yet I could.
I decided I would do some light exercise. I stretched, as much as the chain
would allow, bending over and down and back again. I did some knee bends,
wincing at the cracking of my rusty joints. I enjoyed it. It felt good to be
doing something so normal. Pretty soon, I picked up a light jog, tossing my
head back and forth, picturing a park, seeing kids flying kites, seeing dogs
chase Frisbees. I smiled and savored the moment. Time ticked by and I grew too
tired to continue before very long. It would take a while before I could handle
exercise, even as light as this, for anything length of time. I came slowly to
a stop, loathe for the "outing" to end.
But I was eager for the bath...I knew it would feel so good, I had experienced
that the other day and I couldn't wait for it again. I raced to the recess and
reached inside for my wash water. It wasn't there! I searched that little
hollow in the wall, the only thing that broke the never-ending surface of my
prison, but search as I did, it was nowhere to be
found. In fact, not even my drinking water was present. I clawed frantically;
scratching the wood in my desire to find something that my brain already
accepted was not there. I fell to my knees and crawled around the base of the
wall, still desperately searching for the water, searching for the cool relief
it promised, that it had teased me with just two days ago.
I had never been deprived of water and I railed at it. Was this the start of
the end? By my actions, by my desire to feel the cool, refreshing feel of it
against my skin, did I hasten my own end? Was the end truly just around the
corner now? How would dying of thirst feel? Would the thirst go away towards
the end? Would I die not realizing how parched my body was? Was it like
hypothermia in that regard?
I finally admitted defeat and crawled back to my bed, my corner and curled up.
Sweat still slicked my body and I stuck to the floor in places. But I didn't
care. I wanted my water. I wanted to feel it soothe my throat, my skin, to take
away my thirst and to wash away the evidence of my exertions. I wanted that
normal feeling again. Instead, I was left there in misery, crying softly in the
dark, wondering, dreading the apparent end to my life.
My dreams, such as they were, hovering somewhere between fantasy and nightmare,
were filled with images of the life that I had been robbed of, of images of the
future I had once imagined for myself, of images of my family and my own ideas
of what they must look like now, what they must be doing. Thoughts of my dog
sitting at the door waiting for me to come home flitted passed closed lids.
Thoughts of my young niece starting school, acting in a school play, writing,
reading swam in my subconscious...followed by the dreams of the children that I
should have had...the husband that I should have been lying beside.
I didn't sleep long, not nearly long enough. I sighed in disappointment, bitter
disappointment that I woke at all. Why couldn't this just end...that was the
question that haunted me. Why did it keep going on? What could this pitiful
excuse for an existence serve? I was performing no function, there was no
reason for me to be there in that hell hole, that God forsaken darkened pit,
that soundless, lightless, joyless void.
I pushed myself up and slumped against the wall. The sweat had dried; my body
had cooled, returning to its natural state. I picked at the chain, tried
uselessly to pull it from my hands. The damned chain, the
reminder, the constant reminder of who I was and what I was not. I was
filled with hate. I hated the person who did this to me, who reduced me to a
mere shadow of a human being. And I laughed at the irony...to cast a shadow
there had to be light…and since there was none, what did that make me? Well, it
was ironic. I could think of no other way to describe the life I was living. A
shadow, that's what I felt like. A dark little blip on the map of life, beneath
radar, beneath notice...not quite a nothing, but not quite a something either.
I dragged myself to my feet and wondered over to the recess that had for the
first time denied me relief. I felt my way around and was drinking the water
there automatically, before the truth hit me. The water was back...I was not
going to be thirsted out. I frowned at the cup, raising my head and swiping a
hand across my lips to wipe the excess off as it started to dribble down my
chin. Why had it been missing earlier? Why?
The medicinal smell wafted up to my nose and again, I experienced another
moment of lucidity. I was being closely monitored, watched, my every action
noted. The implications left me railing at those moments of clarity. I didn't
want to go there, I didn't want to think about what it meant, and yet, my
brain, now engaged, didn't want to obey my desires, it
didn't want to shut off. I sniffled and set the water back down and slid back
to the floor. I pulled my knees up to my chest and wrapped my arms around them,
the cool metal of the chain scraping my legs as it settled around me.
I was being watched...and I had been found out. Whoever was out there, whoever
had the insights into my world had figured out not only what I was doing, but
also the why of it...and had turned the tables back around...had denied me the
sensations that I had finally figured out how to obtain. The bastard! How could
he do this to me? What was so bad about a momentary pleasure? It was barely
anything at all...unnoticeable to most...why couldn't I feel a thing? Why?
I stood up and fisted my hands together tightly. My knuckles turned white with
the force of it, the chain hanging down from my joined hands. I stood back,
swung my arms out to the side and brought the chain slamming hard into the
wall. The sound was harsh and painfully loud to my ears, to ears unused to
sound, unaccustomed to stimulation. I winced but kept at it, pounding time and
time again on the wall...bang, bang, bang...over and over. I grew tired and
sweaty, my chest heaved with the force of each ringing blow. It jarred my
shoulders, my back, but I kept at it, until I had no energy left to swing the
chain, no energy left to keep myself upright.
I slipped to the floor in an exhausted heap...but not before I had the water
cup in my hand...not before then. And sitting there on the floor, sipping the
water that felt cool upon my tongue, I enjoyed my defiance...I enjoyed knowing
that I could win...even if there would be consequences...even if the water
would stop coming altogether. In fact, in that moment, I hoped it would. The
end could not be soon enough. I wasn't living...I was only drawing breath until
I died. What was the point? What was the point?
The following days found a weird kind of normality. I would still
exercise...some days there would be water for me...other days there would not.
Some days I would try to work the system, try to wait until the water showed
back up and then take it from the cubbyhole and begin another bout of exercise.
But my captor, the little prick who held me in this perpetual darkness, got
wise and stayed wise. On the days I exercised, water stopped coming all
together. And I learned. Oh, I hated. But I learned. I learned.
I didn't have the control. I didn't have a say in anything in here...nothing.
That was the truth. I had only been fooling myself into thinking that I could
take any of it back. He showed me that. I would fall asleep with a throat so
dry I thought I would surely die. But I acknowledged that wasn't the plan;
before I reached that level, he would give me just enough to keep me breathing,
keep me right where I was. And so the choice then for me was...do I really want
to put myself through any more agony than necessary?
Most days, the answer was really simple...no, I didn't. As bad as it was, there
were days that the water was there and I would get to feel that cleansing,
refreshing sensation as I dripped it over my heated body, as I washed the sweat
off of my skin. And most days, that thought was enough to keep me from railing
against fate, from pushing my luck, from pressing any advantage I thought I
had. A day or two without water...it was hateful, hard to bear, a constant and
unavoidable misery. I hated that...hated that more than the thought of just
about anything else. Just about anything else.
Days continued to slip by. By then, the water was almost always there for me on
days I exercised. I had stopped fighting that control, you see. Even though my
body was getting stronger, more toned, the amount of time I was able to spend
running nearly three times as long as when I had started, my mind was not. In
fact, in many ways, it was weakening. I was not only controlled, but was
accepting that control, learning to live within it, knowing that as long as I
behaved myself, my treat would be forthcoming. Oh, sure, there were days when
the water failed to be there and I would weep at the empty recess in the wall.
But a hidden part of me knew it was just so that I understood that whether or
not the water was there...that was not up to me...it was up to someone else.
One day, after two where the water did not show up until after I had cooled
down, the water reappeared and I wept in relief. And I remember how I said
"Thank you, thank you" over and over again. I had actually thanked
the bastard that had put me here. I had thanked him…for…water! I couldn't even
believe it. I was aghast when I realized what I had done, what those two words
meant. I couldn't bear it. I hated him, but most of all, I hated what I had
become, who I was in that moment. I vowed to myself that anything was better,
anything was preferable over the life I had been forced to endure.
I stopped eating...I stopped drinking. It was remarkable how easy it was. I
just simply refused. Oh, I knew it was there. I could smell it. It was amazing
how acute my sense of smell had become. I could smell water, fresh and clean. I
could smell bread, oatmeal, grits. My mouth watered,
but I rose not. I stayed in my corner, refusing to get up at all. I don't know
if it was intentional or not, a part of me thinks it was and a part of me
thinks it was not, but I even soiled myself, not bothering to get up even to
relieve myself. I stayed in that corner, full of my own stink and filth and
waited for the end to come and get me. I wanted it. I prayed for it, prayed
that God understood that I needed to go home, that I couldn't live like that
for another day. I prayed that it would not take long, that mercy would finally
be mine, that death's sweet embrace would close around me, take me home, rock
me to sleep eternal.
I can't even begin to know how many days I stayed there. It could have been
one, two, three or even ten. How long can a body go without water? Time had no
meaning and as I became increasingly weaker and weaker, it had even less. I do
know that I had begun hallucinating. I saw all manner of things...parks,
beaches, mountains, snow covered trees. I saw my car, my family, my dog. I saw
my old school, my desk. I maybe even waved to the people that I saw so clearly.
I do not know. But it was a blissful feeling and I knew that my days were
short, that I would soon be released. It hadn't come soon enough. I sat back to
embrace the end, to welcome it. But that welcome would have to wait some
more...
I awoke one morning...clean, feeling surprisingly stronger. And for a split
second there, I thought that I had finally crossed over, that I was finally
free. And I smiled. My heart knew a peace that couldn't be described. Until I rolled over and the clank of the chain on the hardwood
floor brought me crashing back to the undeniable present. I had gone
nowhere. I had accomplished nothing. I must have passed out; there was no way
that he could have drugged me without the food or water. He must have been
sitting up there watching and waiting until he could show me what he thought
about my little rebellion.
I had plenty of energy, had plenty of strength. I felt something at the inner
crease of my elbow. It felt like a bandage of some sort and I knew what had
happened. I had been given the fluids, the sustenance that I required to return
me back to my prison. I sniffled and tears of helplessness pricked my eyes.
Until that moment, hope had never fully deserted me. But it did then. It shot
clean out of me in a flash, in a blinding flash I knew that I would be here
until he or she or whatever or whoever was responsible for this was ready for
me to leave...and not a moment before that...not a moment before then.
My eyes dried up that day. Not another tear did I cry, not another rebellion
did I feel. I felt as empty as that room, my soul as dark as my prison. There
was nothing more for me to do, nothing more that I could try. I simply gave up.
What was the point? How many times can hope be dashed before you learn that
there is none? That there is not a damned thing you can do? How long is it
before you turn on autopilot and just exist? Well, I had found out how long...I
had reached it. My spirit slept...while my body went on the business of living,
of drawing breath, my heart beating strongly and steadily, my hair growing, my
nails growing...but my spirit slept...slept...slept.
***
Part IV
I flick off the monitors
watching the small screens fade to black, happier than I can ever recall
being. The day had finally arrived. My baby will awake tomorrow in my arms. I will kiss her and hug her and she will
never again know the darkness that has been her life for the past three
years. Yes, three years, three long,
lonely years of waiting, of watching her every movement through the hazy lenses
of the surveillance equipment knowing that only a wall stood between us. But now she is ready. She is finally ready.
She had told me that she
needed me to be consistent and strong and she had been right. I never thought that it would take as long as
it had, but I had toughed it out, had steeled myself to her plight, had showed her that I could be the Master she needed. And she has accepted it. I can see it in everything she does now. She is no longer fighting her captivity, she
no longer fears. At long last, she
accepts it, accepts her place, accepts my position
over her. I am grateful, elated. I don't know how much longer I could have
endured this separation, even as necessary as it had been.
But it's all over now. My baby is ready and so am I. She sleeps currently, soundlessly and deeply,
a product of the tranquilizers I gave her.
I desperately want this to be a happy reunion, a wonderful surprise for
her. I have the garden ready. It's in full bloom, all of her favorites,
roses, wisteria, snapdragons, a beautiful kaleidoscope
of color. She will love it...absolutely
love it.
***
The hospital is a stark and
forbidding place, the walls once a cheery yellow are now dulled with age and
neglect. A few framed prints hang
crookedly here and there in a shabby attempt to relieve the endless stretch of
that paint, that cracked and decidedly cheerless expanse of wall. I sit in the waiting room, alternating from
one wobbly hard backed chair to another, where I have sat for the last three
weeks, where I will continue to sit for as long as necessary. I hope it won't be too much longer...I don't
think my conscious can take much more. I
am full of self recrimination, regret, self loathing. How did things go so terribly wrong? What had I done exactly? I had thought that I was doing what she
wanted, what she needed me to be doing...how did it come to this?
The doctors come and go,
their rubber soled shoes making little sound against the polished linoleum
floors. They talk to me, ask me the same
questions over and over..."How long was she in there?"...."Why did you do this to her?"...."What
were you thinking?"...."How long?"....
These are the same questions
that I am asking myself, have been asking myself for weeks. God, but I hope that she comes around. My baby needs me...I need my baby...What had
I done?
***
The sun is beginning to rise, the sky streaked with the soft colors of dawn, with
pink, yellow, and orange. The birds
chirp softly, flexing their vocal chords in the early morning coolness. Dew hangs heavily on the petals of the
flowers that are just now beginning to open, beginning to spread for the sun's
kiss. The cacophony of scent and color
is pleasant in the morning stillness. It
is peaceful, beautiful, utopian...more so for me because of the woman, my baby,
who sleeps yet beside me. She is
starting to stir a bit, the drugs wearing off.
Soon she will awake and look into my eyes for the first time in three
years. It is a joyous homecoming. It has taken so much work on both our parts
to get here. But we did get here...we
finally did.
I can't wait to take her
home, can't wait to hold her in my arms knowing that we will never again be
parted. I can't wait to lock my collar
back around the graceful lines of her neck.
I had nearly done it on so many occasions, nearly left her that token of
my love and affection. But I reminded
myself that since she had not yet accepted her place as my slave, had not yet
accepted my authority over her, my right to govern her life as I see fit, she
did not deserve to feel that comfort, did not deserve that token of my
regard. It has been so lonely on my
dresser...it was made for her and looks naked without her neck to grace it, to enhance
its beauty. It won't be lonely for
long. Soon, it will once again be where
it is meant to be.
I wonder what she will say
first. Will she say "Thank you,
Master" or will she say "Your slave loves her Master"...what
will her first words to me be? What will
her eyes look like when they first open, when they see the beautiful place I
have painstakingly created for her, when they first lock with mine? Will they fill will surprise? Joy? Gratitude? Or will
they only reflect love, pure and refined after their stay in the darkness? Oh, I can't wait. I have waited so very long and the wait is
almost over.
She stirs some more, a soft
moan escaping her parted lips. Her
tongues ease past her lips, wetting them against their morning dryness. She shifts, her arms spreading to her sides,
her back arching and stretching. Her
legs part and her toes point forward. I
smile as I hear a few cracks and pops as she slowly rouses her body, as she
gets blood circulating after a peaceful sleep.
But she has not opened her eyes as yet...she has not come to full
consciousness...she has not felt the sun on her flesh. She is soft and warm beside me, her lips
smiling softly, perhaps a remnant of a dream fading fast as she climbs out from
slumber's peaceful cocoon. I wonder if
she had been dreaming of me...of our life together. I wonder if she has any clue that it is
finally over, that she has earned her place at my side, that
our life is set to begin anew.
I see a fluttering of her
lids...a peak and a squint...a peak and a squint...and then....
***
The doctors barely talk to
me anymore. They look at me in the
waiting room as they walk by. They shake
their heads and keep moving. I long to
scream and holler at them that I am not a monster, that I couldn't have done
this to my baby...not to my little girl.
I couldn't...I wouldn't. I love
her. This is some mistake...an effect of
the tranquilizer, a tainted batch of the drug, or perhaps it is some rare germ
that had invaded her food the day before.
But I didn't do this...I couldn't...I wouldn't...I love her. She's my girl, my precious little girl and
she is my world. I wouldn't...I
couldn't...I didn't...
***
"Help me!!!! Help me!!!!" Loud screaming breaks the quiet stillness of
the early morning hours. I jerk with the
pure terror in her voice, in a voice I hadn't heard in so long. I sit dumbfounded as her body lunges upwards;
her arms reaching out to claw and scratch at the light that is now surrounding
her, at the sunlight filtering through the trees.
"Noooooooo!!! Go away!!!
Help me!!!! Help
me!!!!!" Ragged cries and sobs echo
through the garden, bounce off the potted trees I had brought in, carom off the dewy soft petals of the roses, red ones,
yellow ones, coral ones. The flowers
shake in the force of her cries, of her pained and pitiful moans.
I sit there but a moment,
then reach forward quickly and put my arms around her. She flails and her tiny hands beat at me,
pound on my arms as her eyes squint and her face puckers. And through it all...those haunting words,
those agonized screams..."Help me!!!
Nooooo!!!
Go away!!!!"
I whisper in her ears
softly, tenderly, telling her that all is well, that everything is ok, that's
she's finally home, that she's safe. But
nothing seems to penetrate the fog of terror that she's enveloped in. Nothing, not even my soothing coo's and gentle caresses seem to get through to her. Nothing. A sinking feeling lodges in my stomach. Her hands claw and scratch at me. She grips my shirt and buries her face into
me...she pulls hard, plastering her face into the crook of my arm pit, hiding
her face, rubbing it face back and forth, screaming, crying, sobbing. Her body shakes violently with the emotional
wave she is riding. I don't know what to
do. I don't know how to calm her, how to
assure her that she is safe.
I run a hand through her
hair, rocking her gently. She pulls
back, her lids wide open, her eyes unseeing, unblinking, uncomprehending. Her head tosses back and forth...she hisses, a low, eerie sound.
Froth bubbles up at the corners of her mouth. She looks more like a rabid dog in this
moment, not my adoring slave, not the woman I love so very much. How can I make her understand? How can she not see that she is free of that
dark room? That she is in my arms? How can she not recognize me? How can my endearments not soothe her? Not make her feel the love that I know she
feels for me?
The foaming at her mouth
gets worse. It forms bubbles that pop
and splatter between us, dotting the skin of my face, the flannel of my
shirt. Her head suddenly tips way back,
the veins at her neck pulsing with her rapidly beating heart, the muscles
bunching and twisting...
"Make it dark
again!!!! Make it dark again!!!! Go away!!!!
Make....," she sobs, "it...," she
whimpers, "dark...," she howls, "dark....dark....dark...."
Crying harder than I've ever
done before in my life, I do the only thing I can for her. I gather her back in my arms, lifting her as
I stand, and I carry her back to the room.
I set her down gently in her corner, smoothing her disheveled hair,
wiping the spittle from her face. I rise
and step back a few paces, my heart in my throat, my hopes, my dreams, our future together in shambles. I choke back a ragged cry, turn and leave the
room, pulling the door closed behind me.
As the darkness settles back around her, she quiets and calms...but I
cry and howl and collapse on the floor outside the door...the wall separating
us, knowing that we are separated by far more than wood and stone.
After the storm of tears
subside, I go back to the small room on the other side of the front wall. I take a deep breath and slowly click the
little buttons one by one. The monitors
flicker back to life...She is there...sitting quietly in the corner, humming
and mumbling to herself, playing as she used to with her hair...acting as if
nothing out of the ordinary had just taken place...Is that a smile I
see........
***
"...Make it dark
again...make it dark again...make it dark again..."
"Mr. Thornton?"
I shake my head, pulling
myself from the disturbing and haunting memory, the memory that gives me no
rest, no peace. “Is there nothing more
you can do for her?”
“I’m afraid not, Mr.
Thornton. She’ll either come around in
time, or she won’t. But it's been six
weeks and there's no improvement."
He clucks disapprovingly.
"It’s quite ironic really.”
The doctor pauses to look at me with barely veiled disgust…he can't
possibly hate me more than I hate myself...if he only knew...if he only knew...
“What’s that?”
The doctor sighs and looks
through the large two way mirror into the room beyond, the darkness
beyond. He turns back around to face
me. “That which you used to imprison her
has become her only safety…her only freedom…”
"Make it dark
again....make it dark....dark....dark....dark...."
The End.
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