When he was done he went over to the girl. He didn’t touch her, except to shove her back into the box, as if he didn’t want to look at her any more. She gave a small shriek, making meaningless sounds, that might have been some kind of plea. But he shut her away in the wood box.
Then he grabbed Nicole. He stood her up and slipped his arm around her waist, keeping her steady on her feet. “You have to stay down here, because you tried to run away,” he said. He clasped her gently around the waist, and drew her against him. “You can kiss me when you’re sorry, then I’ll take you back upstairs.”
She was forced to hang by her wrists for several days. During this time, her health deteriorated and she refused to eat. Still believing her to be pregnant, James tried to force feed her. It wasn’t very successful. Becoming afraid, he brought her down and took into his bedroom again. Even though she was vomiting and running a high fever, he continued to force feed her, jamming food into her mouth and holding her mouth shut until she swallowed. Several times he almost suffocated her.
As the days progressed, she gradually regained some of her health, but she didn’t let him know how much of her strength was returning. She wasn’t quite sure herself. He let her remain unchained in the bed. He presumed she was too weak to get away, and he was probably right. She did feel too weak.
She sat up a little when he sat on the bed with her. He hugged her tightly, rocking her.
“Baby, I’m sorry,” he sobbed. “I’m sorry, baby. I’m so sorry.” He wiped his wet cheek on hers. Then he lifted his face and found her mouth. He kissed her warmly, just like long—painful make up kisses.
“I thought I was going to lose you,” he said, brokenly.
“I know,” she said in a dead voice. She was careful not to upset him.
“Do you love me?” he asked.
“Yes,” she whispered.
He put his hand on her belly. “Everything will be okay once this thing comes out. Hey?”
She nodded. She didn’t make eye contact.
He was insane.
The afternoon sun was dying behind the curtains. She was under the blankets, resting when he climbed in next to her. He got under the blankets, and leaned in closely, half lying on her.
“Do you want to?” he whispered passing his hand up and down her breast and waist. Her lips opened under his, and she let him kiss her softly. Inside she was dead. Cold as ice. She lay still, in a kind of sleep, in a kind of dream. She stared off to the side, passively allowing him the pleasure of her body. The tightness of his arms around her, the intense movement of his body, was all a kind of dream, which she didn’t begin to wake from until he had finished and lay against her breast.
She stared upwards a moment, not moving. The air around her was heavy with the odor of him and of sex. Her hatred for him was tight in her chest. She turned her face, and looked at him. He was on his back asleep.
She slipped out of bed, quietly, and put on her torn dress. She walked around to his side, looking down at him heavily. His breathing offended her. Without a thought, in a kind of trance, she picked up the lamp off the bedside table and clutched it in her hands. She raised it over her head, but paused. She couldn’t do it. Her lips trembled with the conflict.
Then she thought of all the things he had done to her, the pain, the humiliation. She let her eyelids close. Behind them, she saw the man with the plastic bag over his head, the girl in the basement, destroyed. And she brought the base of the lamp down on his face, harder than she had ever struck anything before in her life. She did it again, and again, and again. When she stopped he was covered in blood, but still moving, slightly. He tried to turn over. She put her knee on his chest. She wrapped the cord of the lamp around his neck, and pulled on it. His hands weakly, blindly, clutched at her. She kept pulling, and pulling, pressing her knee on his chest. He struggled for breath and convulsed as she choked him, his face congested with blood. Then he went still.
She let go of the cord, and stumbled backwards, her gaze fixed on the bloodstained sight. He was hideous, disturbing, somehow more frightening than before. She was motionless, numb in the finality and unreality of it. She turned blindly, and went downstairs like a ghost.
She went into the kitchen. She hadn’t remembered seeing a phone, or even hearing it ring, but she knew it was there. She suddenly became aware that she knew more of the house then she realized. She had unconsciously taken it all in. She took the phone off the hook and with trembling fingers dial 911. She couldn’t remember what she told them, only she knew they were coming. She wondered if they would arrest her for killing a man. She didn’t care at this point.
She touched her cheek, and found it was wet. Some of his blood was on her face. She tried to wipe it off, but nothing could clean away the contamination she felt. She picked the phone up again. She dialed Cameron’s number. He answered, and she blurted out everything to him. As she finished her story, she dissolved into tears. She clung to the phone, listening to his voice, feeling his presence through it—and waited for the sirens.
Copyright
Copyright 2011, Sarah Kate,
Smashwords Edition
First published, August 2011
ISBN 978-09808193-3-5
V20110909-2348
This book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, hired out or otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means (electronics, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise) without the prior written permission of Sarah Kate.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, incidents and dialogues are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual people, living or dead, events or locales is entirely coincidental.