25 Wendy
Wendy
Manhattan, New York
As best I can determine, I have been here three years, give or take.
I have no idea what day it is. I only know what he allows me to know. His mention of holidays and weather are my only gauge of time. I have been here two Christmases and three springs.
My space is maybe ten by ten, with a sleep mat and pillows as well as a portable toilet. There are bars and locks. It reminds me of a large dog kennel.
Today he has not come for me. I think because I am very sick.
I lie on my mat and wish I would just go ahead and die. But then I resist the idea and promise myself I will find a way to escape. I have done this over and over. It’s the only way to stay sane.
On the rare occasion he leaves me outside my cage, I can wander the room, but I have never been able to get back to the double doors I first entered on this lower level.
This belowground space has been my prison all these years.
I have not seen the sunlight or felt the wind on my face in all this time.
I have heard other voices—muffled by the walls that contain me, but I have seen only him.
There are several small rooms on this level. Some very extravagant. Those are the ones in which we play the games he so loves. Then there is another room that looks like an old-world dungeon. That is the one I always dread. He uses the whip and other devices to give me pain. He likes when I scream.
I close my eyes and try to block all the things he has done to me. I thought I was so savvy, but I had no idea about these awful things.
I believed him to be quite old when I first saw him, but he’s not as old as I thought. Maybe sixty-one or two now.
There are other people who come and go in this grand house, but none ever come down here.
And, of course, I never go upstairs. If I’m in the main room of this floor, I can sometimes hear the footsteps and the muted voices.
I’ve tried screaming and breaking things when I hear the voices, and I only end up paying a heavy price.
The punishment is always severe. I guess no one can hear me down here, but he knows.
Although I have seen no evidence of cameras, he always somehow knows.
Casey has never returned for me, and by now I understand he’s not coming back. When I’ve cried and pleaded for the man to release me, he only says that I belong to him now.
I close my eyes and try to breathe better. I am so very sick. It feels like the flu I had once when I was sixteen. I’m hot and I can’t breathe very well. I ache all over. I just want to die.
Maybe this is how I’m leaving this shitty world.
That really sucks considering I thought I’d already paid my dues by having my father end up in prison when I was five and then he got shanked when I was ten.
My mother was a drug addict and OD’d well before that.
Then there were all the foster homes and the too-touchy-feely foster dads and foster uncles.
Bastards.
But none of it ever came close to this. This is some super bad shit. The old man is an evil motherfucker. He’s well educated and very rich but pure evil.
I try to laugh, but I am so hoarse it comes out like some sort of weird grunt.
The sound of metal against metal has me opening my eyes. I blink. Someone is opening the door to my cage. It’s not him. It’s a woman.
My heart beats faster, and I manage to sit up. Is she real or am I seeing things? I blink. Oh my God, she’s real! I scramble to my feet and sway drunkenly. “Please,” I croak. “Help me.”
“Shh.” She gestures to my mat. “Lie down and let me have a look at you.”
I do as she says. “Please,” I beg, “I just want to go home. I won’t tell anyone what happened. I just want to go home.”
I think of Colleen and her old Mercedes. I wonder if she ever thinks of me or worries about what happened to me. Did she go to the police, or does anyone even know I’m here?
Casey knows.
Rage washes over me like a tidal wave.
Julia knows.
Something cold touches my chest. I stare down at the stethoscope. Is she a doctor? Surely if she is, she will help me.
I stare at her. She’s very pretty. Maybe thirty or thirty-five.
“Please,” I murmur.
“Shh.” She continues to listen to several areas on my chest and then my back.
From there she does a complete examination. Touching me, pausing on the scars and frowning.
She does a couple of cheek swabs, draws blood. Has me pee in a cup. By then she has moved me to the main room.
“When was your last menstrual cycle?”
I shrug, barely able to lift my shoulders. “Last week.”
“For one,” she says finally, “you are dehydrated and malnourished. I’ll see that you have plenty of water bottles and protein bars and drinks to supplement your food.”
“I want to go home,” I whimper. My whole being hurts. I am so tired and so scared. I do not want to die here.
She hands me a clear plastic bag containing liquid. “Hold that.” It’s heavier than I expected. Then she sticks a needle in my arm. I wince. The needle is attached to a tube that is attached to the bag I hold. An IV, I realize.
“You need fluids now. I’m giving you an antibiotic as well, though it may not help.”
She removes a bottle from her bag. A doctor’s bag. I didn’t even notice it until now.
“I’ll see that you have more vitamins and other supplements. But you must take them, or you will only get sicker. You haven’t been taking them like you should.”
I don’t understand. “Because of what he’s doing to me?”
She shakes her head. “Because you aren’t getting any sunlight, and you’re not eating properly. But we can fix all that.”
Tears stream down my cheeks. “Please, just help me get out of here.”
She takes my hands into hers and stares directly into my eyes. “I can’t. I would if I could, but I cannot. He owns me the same way he owns you.”
I shake my head and start to cry even harder.
“Listen to me.” She gives me a little shake. “You’ve been here a long time, and you’re sick. He called me to take care of you, so you must be special or he would have disposed of you.”
Those last words penetrate the self-pity swaddling my brain. I wait for her to go on.
“Are you listening?”
I nod.
“If he no longer wanted you, he would have ended you and disposed of you. Do you understand?”
“Yes.”
“Do as he says. Make him happy. He obviously likes you. Keep him liking you, and you’ll be fine. Make him trust you. Make him want you more and more.”
“Okay.” My voice sounds so small.
Then she does the strangest thing. She hugs me and whispers in my ear, “Do all those things and watch for an opportunity.” She draws back. “You’ll be fine.
“When the bag is nearly empty,” she points to the one I’m holding, “pull the needle out of your arm.” She indicates a small wad of white fluffy cotton she has left on the counter.
“Put the cotton on the injection site and hold it tight until the bleeding stops. Remember, eat, drink, and exercise. Take the vitamins. Stay strong. Stay pretty. That’s not just important, it’s everything. ”
Then she’s gone. It almost feels as if I imagined her except for the bag in my hand and the needle in my arm.
She’s right. I need to get strong again. I need to please him so much that he learns to trust me completely. I will make him yearn for me as he has never yearned for anyone.
Then I’ll make my move.