Chapter Five
I wake with a dull, pulsing headache, each throb pounding behind my eyes like a warning drum.
The thin light bleeding through my eyelids only makes it worse, a needle-sharp intrusion against the fog in my skull.
With a groan, I drag my hands over my face and curl tighter, drawing my knees to my chest until the ache in my body outweighs the one in my head.
The sheets are damp and tangled beneath me, the old springs pressing cruelly into my ribs.
Mildew and copper cling to the air, and the metallic tang of blood settles in my throat before the memory of where I am finally drags me back to reality.
Wait. There’s light. My eyes snap open. I sit up too fast, and pain explodes behind my right eye, forcing me to steady myself with a hand to my temple.
Now my blood is rushing south, I can pinpoint the source of my headache at the back of my skull where my head hit the wall.
I gingerly reach back, hissing at the feel of my fingers brushing my scalp, but they no longer come away sticky.
That’s a good sign, surely? Not that there’s anything I can do about it either way.
Across the room, the glow of a standing lamp cuts through the shadows, though the bulb is bordering on fluorescent.
My gaze tracks the cord snaking down to the floor hatch, vanishing through the cracks of its locked frame.
Next to the lamp sits a small crate holding a travel mug and a box of doughnuts.
The sight is a blessing to my hollow stomach, but my focus catches on what’s beside it instead.
A tower of books precariously stacked. My chest tightens, a small gasp passing through my dry, cracking lips.
He gave me books. And coffee. Kenneth, the man who drugged, kidnapped and caged me, has given me access to my favorite things.
I’m supposed to hate him, supposed to be gearing up to claw and scratch my way out, but I still can’t bring myself to hate him.
I pity him and his past, that bleeding heart of mine catching on the idea that I might be able to help.
That I can get out of here in a gentler way.
Sliding off the mattress, I half stagger, half crawl across the wooden floorboards, the rigidity of them hurting my knees through my sweatpants.
Not for the first time, I’m thankful to myself for changing in the parking lot.
Doing this in the confines of an evening dress would have been an added layer of fuck my life.
Brushing my fingertips over the book spines, I trace the worn covers, feeling the comfort of the printed titles. They’re classics mostly, some Austen, Bronte, and Wilde, but a few modern thrillers too.
Selecting the top book from the stack, I drag the crate back to the mattress as if that’s my safe place.
It’s not any more comfortable than the floor, and it would be easier to read if I stayed under the light, but I press myself all the way back against the wall regardless.
From here, I can see the entire room and have a direct view of the hatch.
Without my hearing, it would be too easy to sneak up on me if I were bathed in light and invested in the book I’ve grabbed.
Although, as I look at the paperback lying next to me on the mattress, I have no desire to open it.
I can accept the coffee and the food, needing sustenance and my strength, but the book is a step too far.
It makes this feel too much like a haven and not enough like an imprisonment.
Kenneth is either extremely clever or na?ve, and I’m starting to think it’s the former.
He’s keeping my guard down, recognizing my need to fix rather than fight.
Cradling the mug carefully, I stare at the hatch, refusing to look away. Steam fogs my vision, although the warmth seeping into me does nothing to calm the tremor in my hands.
I still feel off-balance, like the room is tilting slightly to one side.
Or maybe that’s because I’m holding my head at a weird angle, trying to find a position that stops the dull thumping at the top of my spine.
I sip, I watch, and I sip some more until the coffee is gone.
Despite the caffeine, my eyes start to droop once more, the silence lulling me into a false sense of security.
Shaking myself, I groan in frustration. Come on Harper, you need to stay alert.
When I reach for the doughnut box, my stomach clenches painfully, reminding me how long it’s been since I last ate.
My fingers shake as I peel it open, finding four inside.
They look fresh, or at least fresher than the last lot.
I take one, the icing sticky beneath my thumb as I sink my teeth in.
It’s sweet, nauseatingly so, but it gives my body something to hold onto.
Something normal. I chew slowly, forcing myself to focus on the motion rather than the panic bubbling in my chest. All the while, I stare at the hatch.
In particular, where the lamp cord disappears into the gap where metal meets wood.
If the power is on, then Kenneth is still in the house.
What is he doing down there? Waiting for me to scream?
Expecting me to try and escape? He could be sharpening his chainsaw blade for all I know.
Without my hearing, I’m stuck with my own imagination to fill in the gaps.
That’s why I keep eating the doughnuts and downing the coffee until I get a stomachache, fueling myself with enough sugar to stay lucid. Where my hearing falls, my eyes cannot.
The room feels smaller with each passing breath, the slanted ceiling pressing closer, shadows curling into the corners.
I don’t know how much time passes, minutes, hours or maybe more, but I can’t stay here forever.
Pressing a hand to my chest, my heart hammers against my ribs. Then, something even worse happens.
My bladder begins to throb with insistent pain.
I stand and start pacing, one hand pressed against my stomach.
It starts as a bounce, then turns into a desperate, full-body wiggle that would almost be funny if I weren’t terrified of being caught in the act.
I glance toward the corner where the metal bucket waits, shining proudly in the newfound gleam.
My whole body stiffens. There is no way. Not when someone could be listening.
A strangled groan escapes my throat as I press my thighs together and rock on my heels. I try humming to distract myself, but that’s a terrible idea. All I can think of are rivers and rainstorms and waterfalls roaring in my head.
“No, no, no,” I mutter, but the ache is unbearable now. Dignity is a luxury I can’t afford anymore. “Fuck it,” I hiss, staggering toward the bucket with all the grace of a casual drunk. “I’m gonna have to use the damn thing.”
He’s not coming, I have decided. Quickly after that, I make a vow to stop waiting for him to show up.
I’m going to get out of here. Pushing through the lingering trace of dizziness, I approach the hatch.
The bolts visible between the wood are thick and solid, but the screws surrounding the hatch don’t appear to be.
Starting with my thumbnail, I try each one to test for weakness.
It’s worth stating, for the record, I’m a science major.
Give me a vial of acetone and hydrogen peroxide and I’ll make it go boom, but hardware?
I can’t say I’m a dab hand at property maintenance.
Still, I try each screw as if I’d magically know what to do if one were to shift beneath my nails, and grow irritated when none of them do.
After this, I try a more aggressive approach, forcing my fingers into the crevices around the hatch and trying to tug it open.
The splinters hurt as much as the cramp that sets in, and I rear back, punching the hatch and instantly regretting it.
Crying out, I cradle my hand, whimpering at the bolt of pain encasing my knuckles. Dammit, I’m a mess.
At a loss, I push my ear to the floor, trying to decipher if there are any vibrations pulsing within the house.
The bass of a speaker, maybe, or the use of a drill.
I’m not sure what I was expecting, but the wood is too thick anyway.
Sitting back on my heels, I blow away the tendrils of hair covering my face.
It's the unknown that’s killing me. Why am I here?
What’s the goal? What does he want? Did he give me those small home comforts for a reason?
Are they a distraction or a test? These questions and more revolve around my head, frustration outweighing the fear.
Feeling restless, I walk over to the lamp, wondering if I can use the bulb to burn or the glass to cut.
Neither option seems helpful in this situation and will only hurt me further.
So there’s one option left. I stretch out on my back against the cold floor, palms flat, feeling for the faintest tremor of movement through the wood panels.
There’s nothing but the stillness around me, so I do what I always do when I can’t stand being trapped in my own head.
I daydream. I take myself far away from the wood panels and into a bed of artificial grass.
Inhaling deeply, I trick myself into believing the air is fresher.
Overhead, the imaginary dome projects an open sky and the occasional bird flying past. It’s no surprise my mind has brought me back here, as it’s one of the last places I felt truly calm.
Before the ultimatum was set, before my heart was torn in two.