Chapter 5
Seraphina
Now that I’m not in imminent danger of being killed, my body seems to fall apart. The tense, nervous energy that propped me up has disappeared, but nothing has replaced it.
My eyes dart around the room, relief giving way to a sinking feeling.
There are four dull grey walls, apparently made of concrete.
The ceiling and floor are of the same dull grey material.
There’s no window, only a sliver of light emanating from behind the locked metal door.
No furniture at all, in fact, except for a metal toilet and sink in the corner.
There’s not even a bed, and I wonder if that means I won’t be left here overnight.
But then I notice scratches on a wall. Five lines. Could that mean five days?
Five days in this cell feels impossible.
I’d thought Ben’s basement apartment was small, but this is something else. I can’t stand all the way; I have to crouch. I can probably take all of three steps before hitting a wall.
This is literally a jail cell in a dungeon.
At least there aren’t any spikes, or torture devices, or any of the other things I’ve heard whispered about.
But something about being in this tiny grey space makes me feel like I really am entombed.
They didn’t need to bother with killing me. I’m already buried.
I don’t even try to open the door or search for another way to escape. I heard the lock turn, and besides, I’m not stupid. Prisons don’t usually come with open doors.
I crouch against the wall, wondering how long they’ll leave me in here.
Forever? Would he do that to me? I think back to his touch, his fingers stroking my hair, my back.
He seemed to want to soothe me. Yet he also stripped me naked.
He said he was going to hurt me, and he didn’t deny that we’d have sex.
Later, he said. Which must mean he won’t leave me here indefinitely.
Trying to find some comfort in that thought, I stare at the door.
I realize I’m crouching at the far end of the room, though the cell isn’t big enough for that to make much of a difference.
As the crack of light grows dimmer, I’m torn between wanting the door to remain shut, and hoping Damien will come back.
Either one feels like bad news. But if Damien comes, at least it will be something.
In the darkness of the cell, I suddenly realize I’ve never experienced this sensation before. Boredom.
I’m used to solitude, and boredom would, logically, go hand in hand with that.
And yet, I’ve always walked. Spent each day going back and forth between Oakley and Astley.
Even before I began to shoplift, I would go over to Astley Lake every free moment I had to admire its shadows.
In school, I spent my time hyper-aware of my surroundings, tense at the idea of being spoken to.
Though I didn’t need to worry, practically no one ever did.
At home, first with my father and then for the short month I lived with my stepfather, danger kept me active.
I was only fourteen when I moved in with Ben, and with having to figure out how to keep him satisfied, I never had much time on my hands.
Now, though, I’m alone in a cell with my thoughts, and nothing relieves the stillness. I’m bored.
Maybe that’s why my stomach suddenly starts to ache with hunger. That’s a new sensation; I realize all I ate today was an egg, a few pieces of old bread and some overpriced broccoli. Still, I’ve eaten far less and been fine.
After a while, my eyes close in spite of themselves. The light under the door disappears completely, and my head feels heavy on my arms. It must be nighttime.
I guess I dozed off, because I awake, startled, at the sound of metal against metal.
A tray has been slipped through the gap under the door, and a second later, a fluorescent light flickers on outside, allowing me to see its contents.
There’s a cup of broth with a few carrots floating in it, a piece of bread, and a cup of water.
Literal prison food.
But I’m so hungry I’d eat anything. I quickly gulp down the broth, but not before soaking the bread in it and eating that too. Once I’m finished, I hesitate, then put it all back on the tray, which I push out under the door.
At once it’s picked up, and the fluorescent light turns off.
My appetite somewhat sated, I crouch down into a fetal position, hugging my knees to my chest. It’s not really cold, but I’m in desperate need of comfort. And the only person I’ve ever been able to rely on for comfort is me.
In the dark, quiet cell, my loneliness overpowers me.
-
The next few days are the longest ones I’ve ever experienced.
I don’t even know how many pass. Unlike the prisoners who’ve scratched lines in the walls, I stupidly didn’t count at the start; by the time I think to do so, it already feels pointless.
I have no idea if it’s been three days or three months.
A tray of prison food appears under the door every so often, forming a sort of rhythm that only makes the boredom stand out in stark relief.
Though I haven’t felt hunger since the very beginning, I still eat, because it’s something to do.
It’s always the exact same fare: watery soup with a few carrots, a piece of bread and water. The food gives me no indication as to time, and the fluorescent light outside doesn’t either. Though I’ve come to assume that when it turns off, it’s nighttime.
I’ve fallen into a sort of numb state, no longer expecting anything, when the door suddenly opens, the tiny cell flooding with light. It takes me a while to see the person standing in front of me. I’ve gotten so accustomed to the darkness that the light burns my eyes.
My breath catches when I recognize Damien. I don’t know if he’s come to free me or to kill me. I find myself not caring. Seeing a living, breathing person after the overwhelming solitude is a relief. Especially when I catch sight of those hands whose soothing touch I remember so well.
I look up hopefully, but he turns around, and for one terrifying moment, I think he’s going to leave again.
He merely shuts the door behind him, plunging the room once more into darkness. But I don’t mind anymore, now that I know he’s here. I’m not alone.
I sense him draw near, then sit down beside me and draw me onto his lap. I freeze, but only for a moment. When I feel his arms around me, the cedar scent of his perfume, a moan escapes my lips. I still have enough presence of mind to be ashamed by my reaction. I can’t believe I’m so needy.
But he doesn’t seem surprised. He merely begins to stroke my hair, my back, all the way down to my bottom.
He kisses the top of my head and I close my eyes.
The shame has evaporated, replaced by something far more potent than relaxation.
It’s heat that twists my very core. I’ve never felt like this before, and I’m too tired to resist it.
His other hand slips up my smock and I shudder as it nears the place between my legs that tingles with need. But he skims right past it, landing on my stomach. He presses into it lightly with the palm of his hand.
Then he mutters, “You’ve lost weight.”
The voice startles me. It’s the first time I’ve heard someone speak since I’ve been confined to this cell. It takes me a moment to detect the note of anger, and then it terrifies me. Not because he might hurt me, but because of the possibility that he might leave me here again.
I don’t understand how he could possibly blame me for losing weight, and the injustice of it sits bitterly in the pit of my stomach, even as my hands clutch at him, begging him mutely to forgive me.
He resumes his touch. It still soothes me like it did in the office. I find myself relaxing into it, even though I know I should be furious. Everything that’s happened to me is his fault. But all I can think is, Please don’t leave me. Please don’t leave me alone in this cell.
It takes me a while to understand that whoever he’s angry at, it’s not me. I inhale and doing so makes me realize I’d been holding my breath. I nestle back into his warm chest, losing myself to the sensations of his hands over my body.
“You stink.”
This time I know the statement isn’t angry, but at any other time, it would have been deeply humiliating. Now, though, I only feel an anxious pang at the thought that my smell might make him leave.
His eyes travel over to the sink, which I’ve used only to rinse my hands after going to the bathroom.
The water is freezing cold, and even if I’d thought to wash myself with it, there’s no soap, so I’m not sure it would have done much to prevent the stench.
Plus, there’s no towel, and I’m already uncomfortable enough as it is.
Still, I find myself searching for a way to apologize, to tell him I’ll do my best from now on, I’ll keep clean if I possibly can. But the words won’t come.
His arm crisps around me, and the foggy veil that surrounds me clears enough that I begin to understand his reaction. He didn’t mean for things to be so bad.
Just average bad, I suppose. It doesn’t seem like it should make me feel much better, yet somehow, it does. I’m clinging with the last shreds of sanity to the thought that the man who’s putting me through all this cares enough to want to protect me just a bit.
Absurd. But I find myself sinking further into the very arms that have caused this hell.
He’s still stroking me, apparently not the least disgusted by my stench.
He even buries his head in my hair, like he’s breathing me in.
If he really is, it should only humiliate me further, since I’m now aware I stink.
Instead, my starving heart latches onto his touch, regardless of the form it takes.
When he pulls away, it nearly kills me.
“Please,” I whisper in a voice that shocks me. It’s so broken. “Please don’t leave.”
He’s already standing, his hand around the doorknob. “It won’t be much longer.”