5. Three
Three
Eden
Ba-boom. Ba-boom. Ba-boom.
The throb behind my eyes thumps in tandem with the beat of my heart.
I can hear the pounding in my head. My thoughts stir, caught somewhere between the blurry edges of a dream and consciousness.
I grip fiercely at delirium, not ready to wake and face whatever sickness has caused the ache in my skull.
All at once, I gain consciousness, like my mind’s been dunked in a vat of icy water.
Each of my senses fire up at once. I am not where I should be. The bed is too big, the blankets too soft, the air too… clean. My wrists are bound on either side of my head, tethering me to a headboard. I’m too frightened to open my eyes and find out if I’m still in my home.
Those boys. That... man. The smaller one said he would bring me food and water. I never should have trusted a stranger. He looked nice, and I hoped he was, so I let myself believe him. Stupid girl, Papa would say.
I almost wish Papa hadn’t left me. I have no one, I know nothing, and now I’m tied to a bed.
Maybe I can get the knots loose enough to—
“I know you’re awake.”
My body freezes, trapping air in my lungs. I’m too afraid to breathe. Panicking is a slippery slope, one I’m all too familiar with. I don’t want to harm anyone—not even my captors. I can’t bear it. I’ve fought so hard to snuff the darkness.
“Cut the bullshit, okay? The sooner we have this conversation, the sooner I’ll decide if you’re free to go.”
Go? Go where? This is my home. I’ve never left the house in all of my 22 years; I was even born here. I’m only safe here. I know nothing of what lies beyond these grounds.
My efforts to remain still are futile when I hear the floorboards creaking closer and closer to where I lay.
I recognize the low voice as the man from earlier.
The bigger one. With his hand around my neck, I was sure he was going to kill me.
This might be a worse fate. Papa warned me of the nightmares that would ensue if I ever left.
At the time I thought he was scaring me into obedience, but the past few hours have proven him right. I’m sorry, Papa. Please come home.
There’s only a small lamp lighting the corner of the room, but it’s bright enough to make me wince. Even my eyes ache. What happened? I don’t remember him hitting me.
My bleary vision focuses, the stranger standing directly above me, knife in hand. Numbness prickles at my hands and feet as anxiety builds in my chest. Instinctively, my lips take refuge between my teeth.
“Who are you?” He asks roughly.
I couldn’t answer if I wanted to.
The knife is lowered to rest beneath my chin, the point biting into thin skin and a sharp jawbone. All I can muster is the shake of my head.
He doesn’t like my answer, if the lines between his brows are any indication. His eyes would be mesmerizing if they weren’t alight with malice.
“I don’t want to hurt you, but I will. Who are you and why are you here?”
Again, I shake my head and grind my molars together.
“Are you working with someone?”
My brows furrow and I signal the only thing I’m capable of. No, no, no.
I’m not sure how long he persists with the questions—minutes or mere seconds. Each one is punctuated by a prod into the soft flesh above my throat, but he doesn’t pierce the skin.
“Would you like some water?” The words are asked so nonchalantly that they give me pause. I search for any semblance of a hidden motive, but his expression has gone perfectly blank.
The apprehension in me wants to deny his offer, but I haven’t been able to quench my thirst in days.
His eyes bore into mine as I muster a meek nod.
“Hmmm, I thought so. But not until I know your name.” The left corner of his mouth lifts into a smug grin. How foolish of me.
I slowly release a breath through my nose, looking around the room as I ponder how to give him the answers he requires.
There’s nothing for me to hide. I don’t know any information to hide. All I know is what lies within these walls.
Papa might be unhappy, but he’s not here. I just pray these men are gone by the time he returns.
Though I don’t have writing utensils, I do have hands. Wiggling my fingers from where they’re bound, he catches the movement and arches a brow. A dimple forms in his cheek from gnawing at it on the inside.
As best I can, I write an E into the air.
Emerald eyes follow my finger before flicking towards the door. He steps away and the silence stretches on.
“Can you speak?”
Finally, something I have an answer to. My eyes flare with relief and I toss my head side to side.
I haven’t spoken in at least four years. Papa went to great lengths to ensure it.
Although frustrating at first, I had very little need to communicate. For the first time in a long while, I want so badly to yell at this man standing before me. The anger is foreign, but it feels better than the despair of the past few weeks.
The man doesn’t spare me another glance as he exits the room. Half relieved and half concerned, I stare at the ceiling. A chandelier hangs in the center, the glass dulled from decades worth of dust. Only having been in this room once before, it’s strange to see how little has changed.
As a child, I didn’t get ill very often; I wasn’t around people enough to catch anything. Around the age of six, though, I got sick in the night and came here to wake Papa. His bedroom was strictly off limits, but I was frightened.
He told me to never enter his room again.
I vomited three more times and cried the whole night. And I never ventured to this side of the house again.
I could put up more of a fight, but the truth is, I don’t have the energy.
I’ve been surviving on what food and water my father left for me before he disappeared.
What I assumed would be a few days turned out to be a few weeks.
It wasn’t so bad at first; I’d been left alone for days before.
But one morning, the lights stopped working and the pipes only offered a sputter of cold water before running dry.
Desperate and scared for my life, I survived on the water from my toilet tank and rationed out what little food I had.
Every day that I passed the mirror in my room, I grew more afraid.
My cheeks grew hollow, my knees bulbous.
With no way to bathe myself or the dresses I wore, I meticulously brushed my hair.
My black locks were stringy with oil, but there wasn’t a tangle in sight.
For the sake of my sanity, I had to do something.
I jump, coming to attention when the hinges creak. In walks my captor, slamming the door in the face of his partner. I wonder how they know each other, because they certainly don’t get along well.
He turns the lock before walking back towards my father’s bed and tossing a notebook onto my stomach. Pulling the knife from his back pocket, he motions to my bound hands.
“Which is your dominant hand?”
I don’t understand, so I stare back blankly.
He heaves a sigh, like I’m the one being a bother, and palms the back of his neck.
“You can write, can’t you?” The question is laced with contempt, heating my cheeks. I nod.
“Okay,” he motions at me with the blade, sending a reflection of light dancing across the walls. “So which hand do you write with?”
Why didn’t he say that in the first place? I wiggle the fingers of my left. He grunts, rounding the bed. As quick as a blink, the rope is sliced and slack. I shake out my wrist, ridding myself of the pins and needles.
He holds a pen out to me, snatching it back before my fingers close around it.
“If you try anything, I will not hesitate to stick you. Understood?” His voice is gravelly and I swallow hard. Whenever I would dream of meeting a stranger, it was never like this. It was pleasant, polite. This man acts as though he hates me. But maybe it isn’t me…
My heart stutters. What if they are after Papa? My father wasn’t a kind man, and I’m certain he has enemies. Is that why he left?
With the pen in my hand, he begins his interrogation once more.
“What’s your name?”
The fatigue affects my penmanship. His eyes narrow at the chicken scratch.
Eden
He says my name aloud and I shiver. I’ve only heard my name in my father’s tone, usually one of disdain. But this man says it quietly, like he’s trying it out on his tongue. I’m not sure how it makes me feel, but I label it as anxiety.
Before he can ask another question, I write next to it:
Yours?
There’s a moment where I assume he’s going to ignore me, but after staring at the page for a moment, he answers.
“Cecil.”
The name is unusual, and makes him less intimidating somehow.
Our eyes meet. As though reading my thoughts, he scoffs before continuing.
“Why are you here?”
He looks at me expectantly, like a confession is bound to pour out. If anyone should be asking that question, it should be me.
I live here
A thick brow raises and he scans the ornate room.
“How?” Incredulousness accentuates the word.
My lips pull down in a frown. What kind of question is that?
“Do you live here alone? Why were you in the attic?” As he speaks, he lowers himself onto the edge of the bed. His denim clad hip presses to my bare calf and I squirm atop the blankets. He scoots until there’s a gap between us.
I choose to only answer the first question.
I live here with my father
If my last answer takes him aback, this one may have well thrown him across the continent.
The muscles in his arms pull taut, my eyes following the cords until I see white knuckles wrapped around the handle of the knife.
Not only are his hands huge and calloused, they’re littered with pale scars.
I was beginning to relax in his presence, but the sight has panic rising into my throat.
There is a piece to this puzzle that I’m missing. One that could cost me my life.
Narrowed eyes drop to my neck, zeroing in on my jumping pulse. When he speaks next, his tone is softer, though the scowl deepens. As though gentleness pains him.