Happy Ever After
Date: 2008-10-01 07:00:00+00:00
Keywords: Horror; Contemporary
Description: If it's just you and me, together, for the rest of our lives - no-one else to mess things up... could you ever love me? Peter loves Vanessa. He loves her a lot and is looking forward to starting a nice life with her, and only her. No one else to get in the way and mess up their beautiful relationship. He'll do anything for her. Absolutely anything to make her happy. Anything to see that beautiful smile of hers. Anything to live happily ever after with her. The only problem is - Vanessa doesn't know Peter and, more importantly, understand why she is cuffed to the dining room table. Told through

“HAPPY EVER AFTER”

Matt Shaw

© Matt Shaw

ISBN: 978-0-9559753-1-8

The right of Matt Shaw to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by him in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

All Rights Reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any format without written consent from the publisher, except by a reviewer who wishes to quote brief passages in connection with a review written for insertion in a magazine, newspaper or broadcast.

The characters, and story, in this book are purely fictitious. Any likeness to persons living or dead is purely coincidental.

PROLOGUE

CCTV camera one is on. The hallway needs decorating, looks like a throwback to the seventies. I might get some paint, another thing for the shopping list? I suppose I could live with the décor.

CCTV camera two is on. Fuzzy picture. Why? A mental note to self, hit the camera. Maybe the last time I hit it made it worse? Perhaps it will be easier to just buy another camera and another set of connections? Did I really get the best stuff to begin with? I must have done. It was expensive enough and I’m sure the salesman that helped me pick it out wouldn’t have sold me the cheapest. It doesn’t matter. I need to get it fixed; I’ll go back to the shop this afternoon. I best scribble that down before I forget, so much to remember, ‘spare bedroom camera not working again.’

CCTV camera three is off. My fault. I unplugged it yesterday to plug in the vacuum cleaner. All the drilling in the wall had made mess of dust and brick. I couldn’t leave that for her to see. It’s not too important yet though; she won’t see this room for a while. I’ll get around to it next time I need the vacuum cleaner.

CCTV camera four is on. There’s the lounge. Looking good. There she is at the dinner table. She’s looking good. So is the lounge. I think this room is ready now. Thank God, something I can scribble from my list.

She’s moving. It looks like she is getting agitated. I best get down there and see her again before she gets angry with me. I hate it when they shout. I’ll check the other cameras later this afternoon. I best write that down too or I might forget and think I’ve already checked them.

I think everything is going well but, even so, I never knew it would all be so complicated.

Date One

She smells so good. I don’t know what her perfume is and I don’t think she’d actually tell me yet. As far as dates go – I’ve had livelier. She hasn’t even touched her meal, I’m glad I only served up the supermarket’s own brand of roast meal today. Christ, imagine if I gave her a Birdseye meal and she just wasted that? That’d upset me.

“Do I know you?”

Does she know me? It just goes to show that shop assistants, bank workers, basically anyone working with the public… It just goes to show that they don’t really like you, as they pretend they do. They just want to be your friend whilst they wait on you – getting you to spend more of your money. Bastards. Of course she knows me!

For the last four weeks she has seen me in the bank, where she worked, as I’ve been trying to sort out Internet banking. Ha! Internet banking, they say it’s a simple way to pay your bills. That all depends on what computers you use. Before I upgraded, my computer crashed constantly making any online payments a nightmare.

She looks as though she has a headache, “Does your head hurt?”

“Please, what do you want with me?”

I want her to try and be civil and at least pretend to eat her meal. It’s a shame to waste any food, even more so as we’ll be wishing we still had the food to waste one day.

“WHAT DO YOU FUCKING WANT WITH ME?”

Oh God, the shouting has started. Why do they always have to shout at me? I don’t shout at them. Perhaps I should. A mental-note to myself, get nasty with them. “Your meal’s getting cold.”

“Please… just let me go….”

She’s the same as the others. They all go the same way starting with confusion, then to anger, to fear and finally begging me for their life.

I really don’t want to have to kill her. She’s prettier than the others and the garage is getting full. That reminds me; I need to buy more air freshener.

“Whatever you want, I’ll get it for you. I’ll do it for you. Please, tell me what you want and let me go.”

I think this date is over, “Here, take these pills, they’ll help with your headache.” The pills are always kept in the same place on the dinner table, a small little mat next to their plastic cup of water. They always have plastic cups and plastic cutlery so they can’t hurt themselves. Or me.

It makes me laugh when I give them these pills. At first they carry on jabbering away, trying to find out what is going on and then they all seem to go boss-eyed and fall face first into their dinner. They should be grateful they are unconscious so they don’t see how stupid they look when they fall into their uneaten meals. I really should get a digital camera to take a picture of them, it could make for a funny conversation months down the line when things are cool between us.

Speaking of the ‘Kodak moment’ here it comes now. Her eyes are rolling to the back of her head and a little bit of dribble is starting to form at the corner of her pretty mouth. Actually, this seems more immediate than before. Did I give her the right dosage? Maybe I should have force-fed her a little food first so they weren’t taken on an empty stomach. Black market drugs or not, these things should come with an instruction pamphlet.

“I don’t feel so good,” she said.

Well, actually, she’s not looking so good either…

“What, what…. What have…?”

Other side effects, confusion and drowsiness, it’s coming now – the classic face first into the dinner moment they each go through. It nearly takes the sting off wasting the food they never touch. Nearly.

Three, two, fuck. Her head went backwards! That never happens, I feel cheated! I wonder, is it malicious to paste her face with the food anyway? Restrain yourself; it’s just something else that needs to be cleaned up for her bedtime. Speaking of which, I best move her now, her throat is making a funny gargling noise with the way her head is tilted right back. I can’t believe the noise her neck made when it fell back like that. That was sick.

Preparations

The tatty bed, with the uncomfortable foam mattress, looks much more appealing with her laying there, so peaceful, begging to be cuddled. I’d love nothing more than to snuggle in next to her and hold her close, breathing in that sweet scented perfume that lingers around her peachy, kissable skin. She looks like an angel lying there, even with the handcuffs that bind her wrists to the bed’s headboard. They are a necessity but, in time, I hope we’ll be able to lose them. Not entirely though. I’m sure the handcuffs could still come in useful from time to time when the mood takes us. Don’t think about that now. There’s too much to get through still and she’ll be awake in a couple of hours.

Bedtime.

When I got her ready for bed, I dressed her in a cute, pink pyjama set that’s got a cartoon character mouse design on the front. It’s not Mickey or Minnie Mouse; I got this from the market, a cheap knock-off that in no way reflects my feelings for her. It’s just that I don’t think she’ll be wearing it much after the initial few days whilst she settles in. They are a comfortable pair of pyjamas to make her feel more at home. Once she is “at home” I’m hoping that she’ll choose one of the other outfits in the wardrobe that I filled for her.

I didn’t want her to want for anything so I got as many different styles of clothes that I could think of. At least, the ones that I thought would suit her petit frame anyway, keeping the colours to mainly blues and blacks because they are the colours that I like. The exception is the red PVC dress that I ordered online, too embarrassed to buy from a normal store. I really hope she likes this one as much as I do.

She’s got jumpers, cardigans, a business suit that may have been a waste of money for I can’t think of a time where she would wear it when it’s just the two of us, trousers, jeans, skirts, dresses, one of which being a pretty floral little number that I made her wear for our first date. I regret that choice as it made her look a little ’mumsy’ but I was running out of time to change her again – God knows it is pretty hard getting them ready in the first place, especially with time being of the essence.

I went just as silly with the shoes and purchased more pairs than she could ever wish for. I know, for a fact, that she’ll fall in love with them. I’m hoping that there will be enough love for me, after the love for the shoes.

The only downer being that they are all flat soled. There are no sharp heels on these shoes, apart from one pair, for I dread to think of the damage that she could do with spikes. The only pair with the heel being a pair of black, leather thigh high boots; my personal favourite, a pair that will only be brought out for special occasions – like my birthday perhaps? The mere thought of her dressed in these, with the dress, arouses me. I could just fuck her now but I won’t. I’m not a rapist.

I’m not a monster.

The rest of the spare bedroom is pretty much bare. I doubt we’ll use it much once she has moved into the main room with me. There’s no need. If anything it will probably only be used if we ever argue and I’m going to do everything that I can to stop this from occurring. I love her too much to argue with her. And I can do without the headaches.

The last room I have to work on, other than rechecking the cameras (did I make a note of that already?) is the kitchen. I’m halfway through filling it with food. The food has been the hardest bit to organise for I don’t know what she likes and if I don’t manage to get things she will like, she’ll starve quicker.

Once I’ve bought the food I’ve had to empty the contents from the cans and place them in easy-to-open, plastic containers. The plastic containers then needed small notes written on them telling me, for it will only be me that cooks, what’s in each one. Along with the names of the food, I have also written the best before dates. Given time, though, the dates won’t matter – we’ll have to eat them regardless. The last task for the food is the cutting of the meat – I need to cut it into different slices and then put them in the fridge freezers in the garage before getting rid of the sharp knife that’s needed for the job. As useful as the sharp knife is – I don’t dare leave it around the house.

What time is it? She’ll be waking in a couple of hours and I really want to be here for her, so she’s not scared. There are only a couple of hours, so much to do and so little time. I need more food. Even with the cupboards all filled and the sides stacked up to the ceiling, there isn’t enough food there. I can still fill the floor space.

The drive to the shop is nice. There is nothing but empty, quiet roads all the way. These roads are nothing like the roads I was used to when I didn’t live on my foster mum’s old farm, a farm that she stayed in after the death of my foster father. Mum didn’t do anything with the farm apart from worrying about the interior whilst watching the exterior of the building rot. She loved to clean but, as she began to rot, the interior also deteriorated. By the time the building got handed down to me it was practically beyond repair – looking abandoned I could see that it would be the perfect love nest for my partner and I. I’m hoping she can also see the potential. I suppose I’ll know soon enough.

Driving to the store normally took about thirty minutes. It was further away than thirty minutes worth of driving but with no other cars around to cause traffic, I could always break the speed limits. The only witnesses to my lawbreaking were normally the badgers that meet an untimely demise on the front bumper. They are a cheap source of meat. With that in mind I often drove, at night, with no lights shining, in a hope to catch them unaware. The only flaw of this plan was when I caught the cyclist unaware too. I would just like to go on record now and say, ‘this was not intentional’. I wonder, though, if he had a light on, so that he was visible to me, would I still have hit him? Part of me hopes that I wouldn’t hit them but another part of me can’t help but think of all the meat that it frees up whilst saving money.

The local supermarket ladies know me by name, “Good evening, Mr Jenkins,” they’d often say. I give them a polite nod and smile and leave it to that. I was never any good with the small talk. Crowds of people, queues, shops, they all make me feel uncomfortable. That’s not a problem tonight.

It’s quiet. Thank God. Just the usual night-time worker who’s normally too tired to even acknowledge me. She’s the replacement after young Susie went missing a few weeks ago. She’s not missing. She’s in my garage.

A mental-note to myself, don’t forget the air freshener. Young Susie isn’t quite as fresh as she used to be – even with the extra cooling units in the garage.

Date Two

She knows who I am. She sits there at the dining room table, complaining about the handcuffs, that restrain her to the chair, and bitching about not knowing who I am, but she knows me all right.

“Please, just tell me who you are…. What you want….”

She sounds like a broken record.

The first dates are easy to get. You just need a couple of tabs of rohypnol or other sedative, depending on what you can get your hands on. If you can’t get any, I’ve also found a heavy, blunt object achieves the same desired effect. With the paper plates, the chairs bolted to the wooden floor, the plastic cutlery – I wish I had a heavy, blunt object to hand now, with this woman’s constant nagging it’d be perfect. If she shut up long enough, I’d explain everything that she’s demanding to know but I’m not going to talk over her.

Motor mouth here proves to me, again, that the second dates are always harder. The element of surprise is gone and the excitement faded. Instead it’s all down to conversation. In this case, a pretty one sided conversation. Please shut up.

“Why are you doing this to me?” she asked.

When she takes a breath, I’ll jump in and explain.

“Look, just let me go. I won’t tell anyone,” she continued.

She’ll take a breath soon.

“Whatever you want from me, I’ll get it. Money? Did you want money?”

Oh my God.

“Please just tell me who you are.”

And we’re back to that. I can see it in her face that she knows who I am. She’s just trying to throw me, make me think I have the wrong person and let her go. Why would I let her go? She’s the prettiest so far and, all the time, she was right under my nose at the bank. I have travelled so far trying to find the perfect partner and she was always there. There is no way I want to let her go.

“Who are you? I don’t know you…”

Huh, maybe she doesn’t know me. Of course she does. She’s dealt with me so much at the bank, how could she not know me? She’s just looking at me now. Ooh, she’s just looking at me now. She’s not talking. Perhaps I can…

“WHAT DO YOU WANT FROM ME?”

…. I was going to say, ‘Perhaps I can get a word in now?’ I’ll have to be quicker if I am to explain things to her.

“Please stop looking at me, just tell me what you want.”

She’s calming down now.

“I just want to ask you a question.” I said at last, breaking my previous, unnerving silence.

“A question? You want to ask a fucking question? Why couldn’t you ask me at the bank?” she screamed.

Ah ha! I knew she knew me. Sneaky bitch, “I want to ask you a question but I can only ask when you’ve calmed down.”

She’s crying now. The wide range of emotions that I take these people through - why can’t love be one of them? I think it’s possible.

“What question?” she asked through some pathetic snivels.

“If there was no one else, just you and me for the rest of our lives… do you think you could ever love me?”

“What?”

All the ladies that I have seen, they all seem to be hard of hearing for I always find myself repeating the question. Sometimes I think about writing it down for them but then I think that may be patronising, “If there was no one else, just you and me for the rest of our lives… do you think you could ever love me?”

Silence now. I hate silence as much as I hate too much chitter-chatter. Both have an air of unease about them that set me on edge. Just give me the answer. Don’t make me wait.

“Can’t you just let me go?” she eventually asked.

“Answer the question and I’ll let you go.”

She is definitely prettier than the other ladies. I normally go for blondes but, this time, I chose a brunette and I think it was the smartest choice I’ve made for a fairly long time.

I’ve just noticed she’s not eating her food again.

“Yes.”

Yes? Yes what? Did she just say ‘yes’?

“Yes, I could,” she continued, “Will you let me go now?”

Did she say ‘yes’ just to please me? Did she think it was the answer that I wanted to hear? Regardless, she said ‘yes’. The wheels are set in motion now.

“That’s great,” I told her, for it truly was great. I raised my glass in the air to toast her answer and with a little bit of encouragement, she also raised her glass as high as he handcuffed wrist would allow. “A toast to us.” I love the taste of red wine. I haven’t bought too much though – it’s bad for the liver.

I’ve finished my glass and she’s halfway through hers.

I wonder what way her head will flop this time.

When she wakes this time, in the comfortable pyjamas I’ll change her into, she’ll be waking into her new world. It will be a beautiful world with just the two of us. There will be no outside interferences. There will be no one to ruin things between us, as there was the last time I had this special bond with someone, when a stranger came along and fucked my consenting cunt of a partner. This time will be different, just the two of us. Pure love. I can’t wait but, first, I need to make sure everything is as it should be with the house – our own private little world, for the rest of our lives. It’s going to be wonderful.

Her head’s flopped backwards again, with another loud crack coming from the bones in her neck. I wonder if, even though she was falling unconscious, she felt it. It sounded painful.

A mental-note to myself, give her a neck massage in the morning.

Another mental-note to myself, find out what her name is…

Bedtime.

I want to be with her when she wakes up in the morning, perhaps bring her breakfast in bed. The eggs are fresh. I could bring her fresh eggs, toast, bake beans and a glass of freshly, squeezed orange juice. They say that breakfast is the most important meal of the day. Tomorrow it will be. That is, until we get to lunchtime and then that will be the most important meal. And then, when we get to dinner - that will be the most important meal. Basically, any meal, with her, will be important to me.

Before I think about what to cook her for breakfast, I suppose I had better get her upstairs into bed. I doubt the romantic breakfast gesture would have the same impact if she woke and found that she was still in the same clothes and with the same meal in front of her as she had the previous night. Actually, this meal still looks pretty edible considering its stone cold now. Perhaps I could reheat it tomorrow. It’s not important now forget about it, you’ve got to get her upstairs now before she wakes.

I can’t wait until time is no longer an issue.

After undoing the restraints that hold her down to the chair, I put my arms under hers and carefully lift her from the seat, dragging her towards the doorway.

I look up. The camera, on the ceiling at the corner of the room, is filming me. The bastard thing with its red light flashing, filming me as I struggle with this nine stone dead weight. Why didn’t I set the spare room up on the ground floor? In the hallway now: a short corridor, from the dining room, leading to the kitchen, downstairs bathroom and twenty-three stairs leading to the landing above. Can I just dump her here? So much preparation to do, I haven’t slept for days. I’m tired. I’m tired and she’s heavier than she looks. A mental-note to myself – don’t let her know you think she’s heavy!

At the bottom of the stairs now and I’m knackered. Those twenty-three stairs seem a lot more than what they actually are. Rest her here. Pick her legs up and swivel her around. I’ve always found it easier to drag them up the stairs by their legs. I find it easier to manoeuvre them in this position. It’s still not easy work though. Rest a bit.

I’m positive I’ve made the right choice with her. She made the uncomfortable, spare bed I have look good and now, as she lies on the carpet, she even makes the floral-patterned design look great. The carpet: another throwback to the seventies.

Okay. Here we go.

I take her left foot with my left hand and her right foot with my right hand. I walk backwards up the stairs, a quick look over my shoulder to remind me of just how many stairs that I have to climb. That carpet is truly hideous.

Even if I didn’t find it easier to drag the girls up the stairs, by their feet, I’d still do it just to watch their head bump down on each step. Their mouths open and close with each jolt of the step and, for some reason, it always makes me smile. It makes me think though; are the headaches they have when they wake up to do with the stairs or the drugs? It doesn’t matter now. It won’t be long before she doesn’t need drugs anymore and I won’t have to drag her up the stairs.

Halfway there now and I can hardly breath. Am I really that unfit? Huffing and puffing like the big, bad wolf. I’m only thirty-two. This is ridiculous. I wonder how old she is. By the smoothness of her skin, I’d guess at late twenties. The bags under her eyes do add a couple of years but, again, that could be down to the drugs I’ve been giving her.

I’ve just noticed the dress I put her in today is riding up further with each step we venture up together. I’m hoping that, by the time we get to the top, I’ll be able to see her underwear. I know I could sneak a look at any moment after I’ve drugged her but I think that’s cheap. It’s not fair on her. It’s disrespectful and taking advantage. Imagine if she woke from her sleep to find me standing above her, knocking one out. I don’t think it would be the greatest start to our relationship. On the other hand, if her underwear is revealed in an innocent situation, such as dragging her up the stairs, that’s fair game. I get to look as much as I want to.

I chose a kinky little black thong for her tonight. It’s made from a light silk material that’s smooth to the touch. I tried not to pay too much attention when I put it on her, as I want her to model it for me later when the mood is right. If I get a good mental image of it now, it will ruin the surprise later. I want to keep the ‘wow’ factor.

I’m at the top of the stairs now. Just one sharp tug and her head will also be on the landing with her long hair still trailing down the steps we’ve just conquered together.

Her dress hasn’t raised enough for my cheap thrill to be satisfied. I can’t help but feel a little disappointed having built my hopes up for the last couple of steps. At least I’ll be changing her soon so I’ll get to see her panties then. It’s not the same as being teased by the accidental glimpse of the forbidden but it’s better than nothing.

Perhaps I could touch her when I change her. Touch her and touch myself at the same time. No. She wouldn’t want that. You might but she wouldn’t. Stop being a fucking pervert and get her off this narrow landing and into the spare room – there’s still work to be done.

I start dragging her by her feet again, banging her pretty head on the banister as we move around the landing towards our destination.

She’ll feel that when she wakes up.

The spare room; I can see her bed now. Nearly there, just as well. My heart is pounding the inside of my thin chest. It hasn’t pounded like this since that night: the night where I took possession of my new girlfriend.

My heart pounded every time I made a move on a potentially new girlfriend. Perhaps it was to do with the risk of getting caught, something going wrong? Or perhaps it was because of the excitement involved with lying in wait for them to be alone so that I could make my move? Whatever the reason – my heart was pounding for a completely different reason now.

I’m fucking knackered.

By the time I got to the bed I was tempted to leave her on the floor and have a quick rest myself but I don’t dare to. Knowing my luck I’d fall asleep and she’d wake up before me. She doesn’t love me yet. She certainly wouldn’t hang around for me to wake up. Not yet. We haven’t formed the bond yet. Soon though, I’m sure.

Just get here in the bed.

Still using her ankles to navigate her around the room, I swivel her round so that her head is at the ‘pillow-end’ of the bed. It’s not easy getting her on the bed by her ankles so I put them down and walk around to the top end of her body and take her under the arms again. A quick breather but I lift her off the floor and slump her onto the bed, face down. Her feet are still hanging off the bed so I take her by the ankles again and move them over so that they too are resting on the bed. In this position it’s easy to unzip the zipper on the back of her dress. All I have to do now is roll her over.

When I first got a girlfriend in this position I thought that I had done all the hard work by this stage but I was proven wrong when I tried to turn them onto their back. I tried, unsuccessfully, to roll her by reaching over her body and grabbing her far arm and pulling it towards me. At the time I wasn’t sure about the timings of the drug that I had used and was in a hurry so put quite a lot of effort into rolling the sleeping stranger. The end result saw them drop off the bed, onto the floor. That particular girl didn’t wake up in the morning for I noticed that she had landed awkwardly and her arm was at a funny angle. I couldn’t exactly take her to the hospital so I did the only thing that I could. I put her out of her misery.

She was the first lady to take up residence in my garage.

It was different now. Now I knew to roll the girl carefully and that’s exactly what I did with this new lady. I rolled her carefully onto her back so she didn’t suffocate in her sleep. In this position she looks completely natural, a sleeping beauty.

The home straight now, she just needs a change of clothes.

I move to the foot of the bed and reach towards her, taking hold of the bottom of her dress. A careful tug and it easily slides off her body, revealing her matching underwear. Now is not the time to get an erection and yet that’s what happens. Every time. I’ll worry about that later, if I have the time. If I have the energy!

The panties, although enticing, smell of urine. I presume she must have wet herself earlier and I simply hadn’t noticed. I can’t leave it like that. It’s not fair on her. She’ll feel extra self-conscious when she wakes up. Tomorrow is the first time that we’ll meet properly and she’ll feel uneasy about that anyway. Even more so if she knows that she smells of piss.

In the cupboard is a small bag that I have prepared for, complete with make-up remover, wet wipes, and other make-up goods that women would appreciate having close to hand. I pull out the wet-wipes and ease her underwear off.

She could do with a trim.

Her vagina looks perfect. It doesn’t smell perfect but it definitely looks perfect. I can almost sense how snug it will be when I finally penetrate it. My erection is starting to hurt. Control yourself. Now isn’t the time. I shake the lewd thoughts from my diseased mind and pull a wet wipe from the packet.

Holding the wet wipe across my fingers I carefully wipe down her vagina, my middle finger sliding down her slit. It feels so fucking good. The temptation is unbearable but I mustn’t betray her trust. Another wipe downward, starting at the top of her vagina and sliding towards her anus. That’s enough. It will do. She can have a proper wash tomorrow. Get her pyjamas on, the pink set with the cartoon mouse will do.

Sliding the trouser bottoms on is easier than the top as I always struggle getting her head through the hole but I eventually manage it. I can’t wait for her to be able to dress herself. It’s so time consuming but, once I’ve got the handcuffs on and the restraints around her ankles, she’s ready for bed.

So am I.

A quick look around the room tells me that everything is okay in here. A peak behind the curtain shows that the bricks in the window place have set well. I’ve done a good job. Close the curtains again. The bricks, although needed, look ugly and may cause alarm if she seems them in the morning. There’s no need to cause addition alarm.

Everything else, in this room, is as it should be and I leave the room, closing the door behind me. The spare room is one of very few rooms that are lockable in the house. I keep the kitchen locked so she doesn’t get near the food. We’re on strict rations. The computer room is locked so she can’t access the Internet where I pay the bills with the savings in my online bank account. She also can’t access the pornography that’s hidden deep within my system files as a precaution for the times ahead where we don’t get to have sex. I’ve thought of everything. Even if she does get into the room – the computer is password protected with a fifteen-digit number, completely random. The rest of the rooms are completely open to her. Once she has my trust.

I walk away from the door of the spare room knowing that I have a couple of hours left before she wakes up and starts, I guess, screaming. She can scream as much as she wants. No one will hear her. I feel a different kind of excitement now; after the hard night ahead of me, tomorrow is our first day as a couple. Tomorrow I get to meet her properly. No more drugs.

Meeting Vanessa

“LET ME GO, YOU SICK FUCK!”

I open my eyes and wait for my vision to focus on what’s in front of me: my computer screen. The last thing I remember last night as finishing my jobs and coming online to check everything was set up correctly with regards to my finances and bill payments. I don’t remember dozing off and, yet, that’s exactly what I must have done. I wipe the yellow crust from my eyes and sit up in my leather chair. A little puddle of my saliva has spread on the desk, where I had been resting my head. My cheek still feels wet from sitting in it, oblivious. I have a nasty tendency to dribble in my sleep, which I find most embarrassing.

“HELLO? IS ANYONE THERE?”

I don’t know how long she has been awake for, let alone screaming at the top of her voice. It must be a while as she’s starting to sound a little croaky in the throat. She’ll have to scream a little while longer. The late night activities I had to finish last night have taken their toll on the clothes that I am wearing. Dry cement is stuck to the fabrics and my hands are coated in a white powder. Running my hands through my long, dark hair I can feel that I have ‘bedhead’. She can’t see me like this. I need to smarten myself.

“LET ME OUT OF HERE!”

She’s on the second monitor to the left of the computer screen, wide-awake and struggling pathetically against the cuffs that hold her in place. I have time to wash, if that’s the best that she can do – she’s not going anywhere.

“WHAT DO YOU WANT WITH ME?”

Locking the computer room behind me, I head off down the landing towards the main bedroom – trying to be extra quiet so as not to give her any clues that I am only a few feet away. I don’t want to talk to her until I have made myself look better. First impressions, I find, are very important. Although, technically, this won’t be her ‘first impression’ of me, it will be the first day of the rest of our lives together so I’m sure looking good is just as important as when we first met in the bank. On that occasion I have gone in wearing a black suit with a pink shirt.

I’m comfortable with my sexuality so I can get away with wearing pink. Most men can’t pull it off. I’m not like most men.

“HELLO? ANYONE?”

The main bedroom has been divided into a side for her things and a side for mine. Currently there are few things on her side as they are all in the spare room. When we both feel the connection we’ll spend a day, together, moving her things into the main room – a very important step in our blossoming relationship. I long for that day and all that it brings.

“SOMEONE HELP ME, PLEASE!”

I hope her voice gives in soon.

I kick my trousers off and into the corner of the room, where there is small wash bin, and fling my shirt over soon after. Standing in my blank boxers I walk over to my cupboard and open it up to reveal identical clothes all hanging in a row.

I’ve never been one for shopping and different styles so I’ve always found myself to be a bulk buyer. Having nothing but the same clothes certainly saves time in the morning too. Where some people are stuck for ‘what to wear’, I simply grab any of the clothes from my cupboard. The trousers are to the left and the shirts are hanging to the right. Some people might say they’d get bored wearing the same thing on a daily basis but I get bored with the idea of having to wear different things on a daily basis. I like my black shirts and black trousers. On formal occasions you can tuck the shirt in and on casual occasions you simply un-tuck it. Black suits all occasions.

After I’ve pulled on a new pair of trousers and buttoned up a new black shirt, I walk over to the bedside cabinet on my side and open the drawer to find a new pack of wet-wipes. A quick rub down, over my hands, soon dispenses of the cement mix from the previous night. The used wet-wipe, I simply put in my pocket as I reach back into the drawer to pull out a hairbrush.

Always a parting to the side, it makes me look like Clark Kent if he were to have slightly longer hair.

Nailed to the wall, by the bedroom door, is a full-length mirror. I check my reflection and agree with myself that I am ready to see her again. Perhaps I should undo the restraints and leave her in the room for five minutes, so she too can get herself prepared for me? Nah. Forget that. I’m too impatient. I can’t wait for this.

“PLEASE! IS THERE ANYONE OUT THERE?”

“I’m coming.” I call out to her; let her know that I’m here and coming for her. Coming for the love of my life. This is going to be another one of those Kodak moments.

“WHO ARE YOU? WANT DO YOU WANT?”

If she’d just wait a few more minutes, we’d be in the same room and she wouldn’t have to shout – but that’s a woman for you. No patience.

“FUCK OFF! GET AWAY FROM ME!”

She’s shouting at me through the door whilst I turn the key in the keyhole, to unlock it and gain entrance. ‘Fuck off’, she shouts and yet, a minute ago, she wanted me to go to her. I open the door anyway and stand there for a moment, looking at her as she looks back to me, still struggling in her restraints. It’s the first time this morning that she’s remained silent, obviously unsure of what I am going to do. I don’t want to ‘do’ anything other than get to know her and love her but she doesn’t know this yet.

I break the silence, “Hi.”

“Please let me go.”

“Do you remember me?”

“From the bank,” she replies.

I walk over to her and she backs away as far as the restraints allow her to. Why does she think I’m going to hurt her?

“Does your head hurt?” I ask.

“Yes.”

She looks scared and tired. She has black bags under her eyes, heavier than the previous night, and red eyes from when she must have been crying this morning. I kneel on the floor and reach under the bed. She tries to pull away from me again and, again, she is stopped from getting further away by the restraints.

“Stop struggling. You’ll make your wrists sore.” I plead. My pleas fall on deaf ears and she continues to struggle. I pull a small box from under the bed and put it on the mattress next to her. Opening it reveals a needle, some small vials of morphine and some tablets – all of which I have used, before now, to knock her out.

“These are what I’ve been using to keep you sedated…” I explain.

“Please, just let me go…”

I ignore her, “This one is just for your headache and any other minor pains you may have.” I pull out another box, from under the bed, that holds a box of painkillers. “Here…” I open the packaging and hold a pill to her mouth. She simply pulls away.

“Just take it, it’ll help your headache. Whilst it’s working I’ll go downstairs and prepare you some breakfast. Whatever you want.”

“I don’t want any more pills.”

Fair enough. I don’t want to force her. If she wants to live with the headache, it’s her choice.

“If you change your mind, you can just call down to me and I’ll come right back up.” I explain. “What would you like to eat for breakfast? You must be starving!”

“I want to go home.”

“You are home.”

“This isn’t my home.”

“No it’s not. It’s our home.”

“Please…”

I didn’t expect it to go this way. I thought, after agreeing that she could fall in love with me if we were the last two people, she’d be happy to see me. If anything, she seems scared of me.

“You have to eat. You haven’t eaten for a couple of days now, you must get your energy levels up.” I continued despite her asking to go to her old home. There was no chance I was letting her go now. The wheels were set into motion last night, when she said that she could fall in love with me. If it were a lie, then it will make the coming days…. Interesting. “What do you fancy eating?” I ask again.

She’s crying now, “I’m not hungry. I just want to go home.”

The record has broken again.

“You are hungry. You must eat. If you don’t choose something, I’ll choose it for you. I want your first meal to be special. Our first breakfast together.”

“I don’t even know you, please, just let me go home. I won’t tell anyone.”

I’m getting angrier now. This isn’t going right at all.

“You are home.” I said.

Great, now I’m starting to sound like the broken record.

“You will know me, in time. In time you could love me. You said that yourself yesterday.” I carried on.

“I didn’t want to make you angry. You said I could go home if I answered the question,” she explained.

“You said ‘yes’. By saying ‘yes’ you made this home your new home.”

I don’t believe this. The others just said ‘no’ when I asked the question so I let them go. Admittedly I didn’t let them go in the way they thought I meant, but I did let them out of the house – and into the garage. Well, this woman doesn’t have a choice now. She’s stuck with me. She said ‘yes’ and that’s that. There is no way back now. Not for either of us. Even if I there was a way back, I wouldn’t want to take it – I’ve grown to like her already. I just hope that, in time, she’ll get to like me too. Eventually love me.

“I’ll get you your breakfast,” I said. Even if she didn’t want the food, I couldn’t carry on with this conversation now. I’ll give her time to think things through whilst I get her some cornflakes. Maybe, by the time I get back upstairs, she’d see things differently. If not, I could always drug her and try again tomorrow.

“Wait, where are you going? Please, just let me go!” she screamed after me as I left the room again. I didn’t close the door behind me. There was no need to – she was still bound to the bed.

The door to the kitchen only just opened without hitting any food. I had divided the room into different food groups. There were vegetables, different kinds of meat (and the human variety in the garage that will do when we are desperate) and fruits from all over the world. Well, I say the fruits are from all over the world but, in actual fact, they are from ASDA. I just meant that’d you normally find them in different parts of the world. There was also a section of the room dedicated to sweet things, my personal favourite part of the room.

I meant for us to share a special breakfast today but, as she’s not in the mood, I just poured a bowl of cornflakes out for her. I didn’t even use the special brand – I stuck to the supermarket’s own. She hasn’t earnt the named brand yet. Whatever she doesn’t eat, I’ll just pour back into the carton later. Waste not – want not.

I put the plastic bowl of cornflakes onto a tray, ready to take upstairs. I’m not putting milk on them. She’s not going to eat it so there’s no point. I’ll just pour a little water on top of them to help make them soggy, if she chooses to eat them. If.

I wanted a special meal for us today and she fucked that but in one area, I wasn’t about to compromise. For the first few days, I had some fresh flowers prepared and, with each meal, I’d place a single flower on the tray. I placed the first red rose on the tray, alongside the cornflake and a paper cup of water. Breakfast was ready.

False Start

“LET ME OUT, YOU FUCKING PSYCHO!”

I have to confess, it wasn’t the welcome I was hoping for as I returned to the spare room, carrying her breakfast. I smiled at her anyway.

“I hope cornflakes are okay,” I said, “if you want something else though, just let me know and I’ll get it for you.”

A generous offer, I thought.

“I’LL TELL YOU WHAT I WANT! I WANT YOU TO LET ME OUT OF HERE!” she screamed. Why do women always have to scream to get their point across? It’s not as though shouting makes something correct.

I sat on the bed, next to where she lay.

“If I free one of your wrists, are you going to be a good girl?” I asked.

My answer was a small dollop of spit directly in the face. It hit me above my top lip, under my nostril. Morning breath. I’ll have to get her some toothpaste soon to fix that. There’s no way I want to be kissing her with breath like that.

“LET ME OUT OF HERE!”

I felt myself fill with rage. On one hand I had to commend her as the distance she achieved, with her venom, was impressive but, on the other hand, it wasn’t ladylike. I didn’t want my partner to behave like this.

“LET ME OUT OF HERE!” she screamed again, as if I didn’t hear her the first time.

I looked her in the eyes. She spat at me; this little cunt, the love of my fucking life, spat at me. Without a second thought I returned the compliment and spat on her right cheek where, on impact, it began trickling down her skin towards the flimsy pillow.

“I think it’s time you and I had a little fucking chat, honey.” I said.

I need to calm down. I can feel the anger inside of me starting to bubble to the surface. She’d pushed me too far. I don’t like myself when I get like this, and yet, I can’t help it.

I wasn’t planning to have this chat until I had got to know her a little better as, this chat; it wasn’t the best of icebreakers. The anger spilling over my usual, calm persona dictated to me that I had to have the chat now.

“I’m sorry, I’m just scared, and I’ll do what you want.”

Can she see the anger in my eyes or is she just saying what she thinks I want to hear? Who knows? I can’t be sure so I spit in her face again, another small puddle of saliva to add to the other one that still sticks to her cheek. She starts crying harder than she’s cried before and tries to move her head to the side to wipe the spit on the pillow but can’t quite get the angle.

“Please….”

I spit again. This time it lands on the other cheek. I have her attention now.

“Listen to me and listen carefully.” I said. I must calm down. I can’t. “Last night you said you could love me given time…”

“I’m sorry,” she tried interrupting me again.

I spit again, another patch of spit, this time on her forehead. She’s looking pretty stupid now. She drops her sentence and continues to cry.

“You said you could love me. If you couldn’t love me in time, you should have said and we wouldn’t be in this position. You wouldn’t be here. But you lied to me. You fucking lied to me. You caused us to be in this awkward situation and there’s no turning back now…”

She looks as though she is about to say something. I flex my mouth muscles and produce more saliva – ready to cut her off mid-sentence again. She doesn’t speak.

“This is your home now, with me. There is no leaving. Do you understand me?” I think I’m making enough sense and speaking the Queen’s proper English. If she doesn’t understand, she’s a retard.

“Yes.”

“If you have any questions, now is the time to get them in the open.”

“When can I go home?”

I sigh. She doesn’t understand. More spit might help. My mouth feels dry now but I manage to produce another small load for her.

“THIS IS YOUR HOME!” It’s rare for me to shout. I don’t like it when anyone shouts, even me. I like everything to be calm and quiet. Even background noise, no matter how slight, annoys me.

“I’m sorry,” she says again.

“Is there anything else?” I ask, hoping that the answer is ‘no’.

“If this is my home, why do I have to be kept tied to a bed?”

Ah-ha. A sensible question! I won’t spit at her.

“There’s rules to living with me. All the time there is no trust, or connection, you still stay in this room. As the trust and bond grows between us I will slowly let you out of your restraints, one pair at a time, until you are free to go about the house, by yourself. When you start loving me, as much as I love you – we’ll move your belongings into the main bedroom with mine and we’ll start sharing a bed. Once we get through this initial rough patch, I’m sure you’ll see that I’ve tried to do the best for you.”

“What about my parents? They’ll be wondering where I am. They’ll look for me.”

“There is no one else, it’s just you and me. No outside influences to ruin our love for one another.”

“But I miss them.”

“In time, you won’t. You have me to look after you.”

I can feel myself calming down now and reach for a wet-wipe to clean her face. She doesn’t say anything but, by the look in her eyes, I can tell she’s grateful. Perhaps I should apologise?

“I’m sorry,” I said, “it’s just that I’ve gone to so much trouble for this and it’s all going wrong. Look, I got you a flower.” I show her the rose from the breakfast tray but she doesn’t acknowledge it. Waving the flower in front of her eyes also gets no reaction. “You’re tired, I’ll leave you alone for a couple of hours, let you gather your thoughts.”

Nearly forgot something.

“Before I go,” I asked, “what’s your first name?”

She still doesn’t look at me but answers, “Vanessa.”

Vanessa. I like that. It’s a pretty name that suits her well.

“Well, Vanessa, if you need anything just give me a shout.” I say as I turn and leave the room, closing the door behind me.

I’ll watch her from the computer room – make sure she’s okay. As I returned to the computer room where I could continue to monitor her from the CCTV cameras, I couldn’t help but feel that today had set our relationship back significantly. I wanted everything to be special today but now I just wished that I could turn the clock back and start again, pretend as though the day never happened.

I sit down and watch her on the monitor. She’s staring ahead, at the wall, not blinking and not moving. I hope that she can forgive me of my outburst. I truly am ashamed of myself. I keep trying to reassure myself that everything will be fine. Just give her time. They do say that ‘time is a great healer’. I don’t know who ‘they’ are but I do hope that ‘they’ are right.

I did tell her that I’d leave her alone for a couple of hours but I think that, maybe, half an hour should be enough time before I check on her again. I don’t like leaving her by herself. I just want to make everything right.

When you find yourself sitting and just watching – half an hour seems like a lifetime ticking away. What feels like twenty-minutes is, in reality, a mere two minutes of passed time. I can feel myself getting tense as she continues to just lay there – not that she has much choice being bound to the bed in such a manner. I like the quiet and yet this quiet is disturbing to me. I can’t tell whether she is okay or whether she wants anything. It’s as though she’s just shut down. Given up. Have I not offered her enough? I’ve given her a home to live in, food to eat, water to drink and, most importantly, my heart and yet she returns nothing.

I think I’ve broken her.

“How are you feeling?” I tentatively ask as I return to the spare room. “I got you some fresh water.” I continue, not giving her a chance to answer, not giving her a chance to shout or swear at me.

It’s been twenty-three minutes since I left her staring blankly at the wall. I couldn’t wait any longer to see her. Make sure she is okay.

“I’m sorry,” she whispered.

“What?” Why was she apologising to me? I mean, sure she made the first day awkward between us and got me more angry then what I like to get but I was the one that went too far.

“I didn’t mean to upset you.”

Perhaps we could work as a couple, after all?

“You’ve obviously gone to a lot of trouble and I didn’t mean to ruin things for you,” she continued. “Thank you for my flower, it’s lovely.”

“You’re welcome. I’m glad you liked it.”

“I do.”

‘I do’, the two words I’d love to hear the most from her mouth but in a different context.

“Maybe we could just forget about earlier,” she carried on.

That sounded like a good idea to me. We could have the first day all over again; do all the things that I wanted to do.

“And I’m sorry but I need to go to the toilet.”

“Oh, yes, of course. Sorry.”

I like the ‘new’ Vanessa. She’s more obedient and I can sense that she’s going to be a pleasure to talk to, unlike before when she was shouting and cursing – two traits that I despise in women. The keys to the different cuffs are hanging on a long necklace that I keep around my neck with the keys to the lockable rooms of the house. They can be annoying, with the cold metal against my bear skin, but it’s the safest place for them to be. I can’t have her getting hold of the keys before the trust is in place – after that it won’t matter although it’s still not ideal. Worse than that though, I can’t lose the keys this way.

I take the left hand restraint off first and her immediate reaction is to swirl her wrist around, getting the blood to circulate again, before wiping her face where I shamed myself earlier. She smiles at me. It’s the first time I’ve seen her smile at me since I pulled her from her workplace where she had to smile at me as part of her job role. You can’t give good customer service by frowning at customers, although many a shop assistant seem to forget this.

I leave the right hand bound to the headboard temporarily whilst I undo the restraints keeping her legs held down. With the cuffs no longer in place she bends her knees up, clicking them in the process. Maybe she needs more manoeuvrability in the chains to allow her to bend her knees up? I don’t want her to be uncomfortable. Sure, things are looking promising now but she is a long way of gaining my trust. Unfortunately. Even without a proper wash for a few days, she still looks hot. If anything, the ‘sleepy look’ makes her look cuter.

I move up to her right hand and she’s still smiling at me. She’s trying too hard now and I feel like something’s not right, “Remember, as soon as I trust you completely, you won’t need to go back into the restraints. You can have free roam of the house.” Perhaps by telling her this it will put any silly ideas out of her head.

I undo the last restraint. She doesn’t move.

“Thank you.”

“I’ll show you where the bathroom is.” I’m pleased and excited that she hasn’t tried to run. Not that she can run anywhere. I lead her out of the spare room and onto the landing, passing the computer room with it’s locked door and the main bedroom that looks one hundred percent comfier than the room she is currently used to. She looks in and sees the large, double bed and posh duvet set, another reason to behave and do her part to get the trust into our relationship.

The bathroom is at the far end of the landing, with the door closed. I open the door for her and point the way inside, “Feel free to have a wash too, if you’d like, there’s a towel hanging on the side.” I’m hoping she’ll go for the wash as well as the toilet break. The days in bed have taken their toll on her hygiene.

“Thank you.” She walks in and I close the door behind her safe in the knowledge that she can’t go anywhere, or do anything, that I don’t want her to. She’s mine. I sit on the floor, to the side of the door, and wait. Hopefully she won’t be long.

Play The Game

I don’t know who he is other than the fact that I saw him in the bank a couple of times. I’m scared and I want to go home to my mum and dad. The last thing I said to them was, ‘see you later’ and I don’t want that to be a lie.

I look around the bathroom; wooden floor, white toilet bowl with no lid to the cistern, white sink that’s marked from years of neglect, no towel rail, there’s a handful of clean towels on the floor, a medicine cabinet that reveals nothing but bars and bars of sealed-soap when I open it, a tatty bath that, even in my current unwashed state, doesn’t look appealing to use. I can’t find anything to hit him with, knock him out so I can escape.

I’ll jump out of the window instead; I’d rather die in the landing then stay here with him. I want my mum and dad. I pull back the curtain to let the light from the outside world spill in but there’s no light. The window is blocked up with bricks. My way out is blocked up with bricks. Fuck it.

“Are you okay in there?” his voice comes from right outside the door.

He’s waiting for me. I can’t get out that way either.

“Vanessa?” he calls me again. I’d best answer him.

“I was just looking for the soap.” I lied. A silly lie as there was only one place that it could be and in this small room.

“It’s in the medicine cabinet. I told you, treat this house as your own, feel free to look around and explore things.”

But this house isn’t my own. I live with my mum and dad. I lived with my mum and dad until he jumped me in the car park. I remember now. I was leaving the nightclub earlier than my friends as I had an early start in the morning. I was walking to my car when I felt a hand around my mouth and something sharp digging in my skin. It was him. Forget about that now. It’s not important. Thank him for his generosity before he gets upset again. I mustn’t get him upset.

“Found it, thank you.” I called out.

“My pleasure.”

I run the bath water and sit on the toilet whilst I think of what to do. I was stupid earlier for shouting at him and getting him angry. My best chance of escape is to be able to walk around the house without him constantly following me with the chains in his hand. The only way I can do that is get the trust up between us. ‘Play the game’.

The bath water feels warm enough now and I take my clothes off. What the fuck am I wearing anyway? It doesn’t even look like Minnie Mouse on these pyjamas. Standing, naked, I hope he doesn’t come in. Is he even there still?

“So what did you want to do today?”

He’s still there.

“I’ve got some board games, a handful of books to read or we could just talk together,” he continues.

Board games? He does know I’m twenty-nine years old, doesn’t he? I wonder what sort of books a madman stocks in his home. The more I think about it, the only way we can build trust up is to talk. Perhaps I can find out why he is doing this to me, if I know the motive I maybe able to help him find another way to deal with it.

“We can just talk, if you want.” I call out to him.

The bath water feels nice against my skin. I ache all over from being cuffed to the bed for so long. I close my eyes and try to go to a ‘Happy Place’. Is he going to expect sex once he believes there is trust between us? I don’t know if I can go through with that. He’s thin, like a walking skeleton. The thought of him being inside me repulses me. Has he been inside me?

So much for finding my ‘Happy Place’!

‘Worry about that if it comes down to it,’ I think to myself. I’m hoping I’ll find another way to get out of here before that. I don’t know how long it will be before he thinks I trust him but, whatever timeframe that is; I want to be out of here sooner, a lot sooner.

Despite being up to my neck in warm water, a cold shiver runs down my back as I think of him touching me and wondering whether he took things further when I was unconscious. He talks of trust like it’s one of the most important things to him but how can I trust someone that knocks me out cold whenever he chooses.

I can’t hear him outside the door anymore. Is he still there?

“Hello?” I call out quietly enough for him to be able to hear me if he is there but not so that he’d hear me if he was somewhere else in the house. There’s no response. “Hello?” I say again.

He’s gone. This is it, Vanessa, get your act together. Get out of the bath and just run down the stairs to the front door. Run as fast as you can. I climb from the bath as quietly as I possibly can so as not to disturb the water too much, the water that will betray my motives if heard. Once out, I call out for him again, “Hello?” but, again, nothing. This is it. My heart is beating hard and fast now as adrenalin rushes through my tired veins. Leave the towel, it’ll only slow you down, just open the door and sneak down the stairs. If he’s in one of the bedrooms, just try and outrun him.

The door opens surprisingly quiet despite the old house. I thought it would have made more of a creak but, thankfully, there’s nothing. Not a peep. The landing stretches out in front of me. He’s not here. I listen out. I can’t hear him.

I stretch my head around the top of the stairs. The front door is just a few feet in front of the bottom step. If I’m quick, I can make it. My first foot goes on the top step, a slight creak. He couldn’t have heard that, I only just heard it. My right foot follows, another slight creak that’s only just audible to me. I can make it. I can hear my heart beating loudly. I wonder, can he?

Another quick check of the doorways upstairs, make sure he hasn’t seen me. He’s not there. Clear passage. Home and dry. The next step, watch where I’m going, I don’t want to trip.

“Where are you going?”

Fuck. My heart skips a beat. I was so busy looking across the landing for him I didn’t realise that he was standing at the foot of the stairs, between the door and I.

“I said, where are you going?”

He’s holding a cup of tea, use it for my excuse.

“I was looking for you, I was wondering if you could get me a hot drink.” A beat. He’s staring at my body as the water drips from my naked skin. “It looks like you read my mind.” I continue gesturing towards the cup of tea, hoping to distract him from my true intentions and from my naked body.

“Erm, yes. Yes, I made you a cup of tea,” he stammers, “I wasn’t sure whether you’d want sugar.”

Use my sexuality.

“No, thanks, I’m sweet enough.”

He smiles, “So I can see.” A smile from a monster doesn’t have the same reaction as when you receive a smile from a true friend and, for a second time, a shiver runs down by back. Get a towel. Cover up.

I take the necessary steps back into the bathroom and close the door behind me before wrapping myself in one of the provided towels. My heart is still beating hard. I’m disappointed with myself, I was so close and yet, if anything, I’ve gone back a step in the trust department.

A knock at the door distracts me from my thoughts.

“Where did you want your cup of tea?”

A hard question to answer as I don’t know what options I have with regards to rooms in which to drink it, “Downstairs?”

“Okay, the spare room it is.”

Obviously ‘downstairs’ isn’t open to me yet. I should go out and face him but I’m scared to see his reaction. Did my excuse work? Was the sight of my naked body enough to distract him? Regardless, I can’t stay in here – as much as I want to.

When I open the door he’s stood directly in front of me. Upon sight of me, he looks my body up and down. His smile fades from his face, “I like your towel.”

Fuck.

Show Time

He’s allowed my feet to be free, this time around, as I lay on the bed. My left hand is also free, my right hand being the only thing that binds me to this god-forsaken bed. I wonder whether it would be a different scenario had I not left the bathroom without his prior knowledge. The cup of tea sits on a rickety table to the left of me – in easy reach when I feel the need for it. I’m still not thirsty though. My nerves are all over the place and suppressing my hunger and thirst.

“You aren’t thirsty?” he asks from the corner of the room, where he sits upon a chair that looks as though it’s bolted to the floor.

“It’s too hot at the moment,” I lie.

Silence again. I suggested that we talked together but I don’t know what to say. I don’t want to upset him and I don’t want him reading me, my true intentions – looking for a way out. He’s looking at my body still, not so much my face. Before cuffing me down he allowed me to put some knickers on, but only knickers. Now he just sat there, saying nothing, his eyes raping me as they had done when he stood at the foot of the stairs.

“So what did you want to talk about?” he asked.

I don’t know. Think. Don’t upset him. Small talk. Pretend you’ve only just met him and you’re in a coffee bar or somewhere similar. You’re just two ordinary people meeting for the first time over an over-priced cappuccino.

“What’s your name?” I ask, the first logical question.

“You know my name.”

“Mr Jenkins. I know your surname. What’s your first name?”

“Peter.”

“I like that. It suits you.” My ex was called Peter. He was a psycho too. He smiles, unaware that I’ve just insulted him. “How old are you?”

“Thirty-two.” The smile fades from his face again.

Conversation was already starting to dry up. The situation I found myself in left me feeling awkward and unsure of what to ask next. He keeps glancing at the tea. Is it a problem that I haven’t touched it yet? I pick it up and take a sip. The smile returns to his face.

“It’s nice, thank you.”

“My pleasure.”

It’s not nice. It needs sugar. I don’t say anything, I’m just thankful it’s not drugged.

“What did you want for dinner, this evening?” he asks.

I don’t want to answer. I don’t want to be there ‘this evening’. I was still trying to figure a way out of this predicament.

“I don’t mind, you pick. It’s more romantic.” He looks puzzled. Was that pushing it too far? In some films I’ve seen, the men ordered the food for the ladies when they frequented fine restaurants. I guess he hasn’t seen the same films as me, his film choice probably not straying too far from ‘The Texas Chainsaw Massacre’.

“Do you like Tuna?” he asked.

Not really, but I don’t care. I won’t be here this evening, as I keep telling myself. “Sure.”

“I’ll make some Tuna steaks with some potatoes, if you’d like.”

“That sounds lovely,” I lied once more.

Once more, we were back to silence.

‘He doesn’t trust me as it is, so why am I so scared of asking the wrong questions,’ I thought to myself, ‘just ask him.’

“Why me?” I asked.

“What?”

“Why me? Out of everyone you meet in your life, why did you choose me to be your girlfriend?” A question I thought deserved an answer. Perhaps I could convince him that he doesn’t need to keep me prisoner to be his partner. I might be able to convince him that our relationship would blossom even if I were allowed back to work…. Back to my mum and dad.

“You were the only one to say ‘yes’,” came his reply.

Who said ‘romance was dead’?

“There’ve been other ladies?” I asked.

“A few.”

“How many is ‘a few’?”

“Just because there were more before you, it doesn’t mean that I don’t love you.”

I ignored him, how many other women did he put through this? “How many?” I repeated.

“Fourteen.”

“I’m the fourteenth?”

“No.”

“I’m the fifteenth?” I couldn’t believe it. Fourteen other women had been subjected to the same treatment, “What happened to them?”

“They said they couldn’t love me.”

“So what happened to them?” I repeated again. He seems subdued.

“I let them go.”

He let them go? Had I sealed my own fate by saying that I could love him? If I had said ‘no’, would he have let me go as well? I can’t tell from his facial expression, or body language, whether he’s telling the truth.

“If you didn’t think that you could love me, why did you say that you could, in time?” he asked.

“Because I was scared that you might have hurt me.” There was no need to lie, after all, that’s what I felt at the time. I still don’t know what he truly wants. He doesn’t answer back.

“Do you still think that?” he continues, still showing no emotion to give himself away.

“I don’t know.” I said but ‘yes’ I do still think that he may hurt me. Let’s face it, he did drug me and kidnap me in the first place! I pushed him further, “What do you want from me?”

He looked away from me, the first time since restraining me on the bed again, “I just want you to love me.”

“And you think this is the best way?”

“We’re just getting to know each other. In time, you could love me. If there is no one else to put their points across or interfere in other ways, you could get to love me.”

And there was the problem that I needed to work on. He was scared that, in the real world, because of other people – I’d stop loving him, if we were a real couple.

“With just the two of us, our love will continue to grow. Until death us do part,” he went on.

I didn’t like the sound of ‘until death us do part’ and I had news for him that I’ll keep to myself for now but it’s not ‘until death us do part’ – it’s ‘until tonight us do part’. I smile at him – a fake smile to try and show him that I understand where he’s coming from, “I’ve been hurt in the past before too.” I haven’t. In the past, with old boyfriends, it’s always been me that leaves them for whatever reason. This ‘boyfriend’ is going to be the same. I’ll be leaving him.

With no warning he suddenly stood up. A look on his face that suggests, perhaps he has given away a little more than he planned to, “I’ve got some things to sort out before I prepare dinner. If you need anything, give me a shout.” He turned and walked from the room, closing the door behind him, leaving me alone again. Leaving me with my feet and left hand free.

I think back to what I said that caused the ‘run’ reaction. I’ll keep working on that angle if I can’t get out tonight. If he isn’t comfortable in the same room as me, perhaps he’ll release me. Let me go, like the other girls. What’s that noise – a whirring noise from the ceiling? I look up and see a small camera – he’s watching me?

The camera is non-moving so I presume the whirring noise it’s making is the zoom function. He’s run from me due to possible embarrassment and yet he can’t help but to watch me. For the first time since being in this house, I feel I have the upper hand. If he wants to watch, I’ll give him a show.

‘Given the circumstances, I’ll have to fake it,’ I think to myself as I stare into the camera, stroking my breast with my free hand – trying to get the nipple to stand out. I moan out loud in ‘pleasure’ as I touch myself up, licking my lips and hoping that the camera picks up audio.

I’m disgusted with myself but I can’t help but hope he’s sat at the monitor, touching himself. If I can make him cum from a private show, he may believe that I am starting to like him, “I hope you like what you see.”

The thought of him rubbing himself slowly, as I caress my breasts in turn, repulses me but I need to continue. I need to strengthen an imaginary bond between us so I can get access to the rest of the house, “My way of saying ‘thank you’ for not restraining me completely,” I say to the camera. I slowly stroke my fingertips downwards towards my dry pussy.

I’m going to have to close my eyes, try and take myself somewhere completely different if I am to stand any chance of getting wet enough to slide a finger deep inside of myself without it hurting. ‘Just keep up with the fake moans, look as though I’m enjoying myself,’ I think to myself as I circle my clitoris through my underwear.

The door opening shatters my deep concentration and I open my eyes to see him standing in the doorway, a look of lust in his eyes. I carry on running my finger up and down my slit as he approaches me, taking his top off and dropping it to the floor. I push my index finger inside of me and let out a loud sigh, staring him directly in his eyes. I have him exactly where I want him. He crouches over the bed and extends his hand to touch me.

“Wait.” I tell him as I pull away from myself.

“What?”

“I’m not ready for that yet. I just wanted to give you a private show – a thank you for not restraining me completely.”

He looks flustered, a bulge in his trousers shows me that he wants more than a private show but that’s all I’m offering. If he wants more he’ll have to force it and that will destroy everything he wants to get from me.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean for you to get the wrong impression.” I say, trying to sound sincere.

He stands in silence for a while looking at my breasts, my erect nipples, before looking me in the eye and saying, “I just came to let you know I’m putting the dinner on.” He turned and walked from the room – the door slamming behind him.

I win.

I like having the upper hand. By tonight, I’ll be out of here.

Tuna Steak

She thinks she’s been clever but she’s been far from. When she was in the bathroom looking for a weapon, or a way out, I knew what she was doing. Every room has CCTV – even the bathroom. The show in the spare bedroom – a desperate attempt by her to try and convince me that she’s starting to fall for me, or at the very least, please me. I’ll play along for now. Just give her enough rope to hang herself. Maybe, in time, she’ll stop trying to play games with me and things will progress in the direction that I want them to. At the moment though, she’s amusing to watch – a broken character trying to get her strength back.

Is this really the girl that I chose above the others?

She’s not saying anything at the moment, as she sits opposite me at the dinner table. I’ve gone to so much trouble to make things look romantic and she hasn’t even commented on that. Sometimes, I don’t know why I bother.

“I’m sorry about earlier,” she says, “I didn’t mean to embarrass you.”

Ooh. Here we go again. I best turn my vulnerable side on again.

“No, I’m sorry.” I said, acting all coy and embarrassed. I’m not sorry in the slightest. I enjoyed my show. Hell, I was even tempted to finish it but I knew that would ruin my chances with her in the long run.

“I just wanted to show you how grateful I was for being allowed to stay out of restraints back in the bedroom.” She’s pathetic. She’s gone from upset, to angry, to upset, to shock, to sexual predator in the space of day and she expects me to believe it. She gives me another fake smile. A smile filled with fake sympathy. Fuck her. I just want to see how far she’s going to go and what her end game is. If the end game is ‘escape’, she’s in for a shock.

“If that’s the thanks I get,” I said, “maybe I’ll leave you in that position again tonight.” Of course I won’t. I can see where this evening is going already. The needle is primed, under the table – ready to use as a last resort. I’m hoping she is going to come to her senses.

“Dinner looks nice,” she says changing the conversation at last.

“Thank you, hopefully you’ll like the taste too.” I don’t care whether she likes the taste or not. I’m just hoping that she eats it. I’m losing count of the amount of meals that I’ve had to bin. “I’ve got strawberries for pudding, if you’d like.”

“Sounds great.” She takes a mouthful of potato. Hallelujah! It’s not a complete waste. “Listen, could we just forget about earlier on?” She’s back to that again.

I crack a joke, “What happened earlier on?”

“You know…”

The joke washes over her head.

“Sure.”

I’ve spat at her repeatedly and she masturbated in front of me. It’s been a strange first day. She looks towards the curtains that hide the window – or, at the very least, hide where the window has been blocked up with bricks.

“I’m sorry,” she says, “the darkness in here is giving me a headache. Do you think we could open the curtain and let some light in?”

“No.”

A simple answer that I thought would answer the question for her.

“Is it blocked like the one in the bathroom?” She looks at me. Did she really want me to know that she was looking for a way out when I let her have a bath?

“I wasn’t aware that you checked. You didn’t say anything.” I knew that she checked. I just wasn’t aware that she wanted me knowing she did.

“I was trying to get some fresh air.”

Liar. I know what you were trying to achieve – a way out. Come on. Think. There must be a way of turning this around. Stop it from heading towards failure. It’d be a waste of all the work and planning that I’ve put into this.

“So tell me about yourself,” I ask.

“Well my name is Vanessa and I’m being held against my will by a man that could have been perfect boyfriend material in the real world,” clever bitch, “I’m in my twenties, hoping to see my thirties and still live with my mum and dad whilst I save up to get my own house, that I’m very much looking forward to shopping for – with the right man.”

A clever answer: it contained enough facts to keep me happy and also a dig about being here against her will. A sly reference to me being the ‘perfect boyfriend material’ in the outside world was a great touch that seemed to flow from her with no effort. She’s definitely clever.

Not as clever as me.

“With all the horrible things happening in the outside world, surely it’s better to be sealed away from it. Nothing to stand between true loves, nothing to bring unnecessary hurt into your life, nothing to tear us apart. Just ‘true love’.” I show her that I hate the outside world and all that reside within. She just looks at me with a face that suggests she’s smelt something funny in the air. Perhaps she has – young Susie is on the other side of wall, in the garage, and the lemon air-freshener must be wearing off by now.

A mental-note to myself: spray the garage again.

“I like the outside world,” she says. “I miss it.”

I cut her dead, not literally, not yet, “In time you won’t.”

“We’ll have to venture out together sooner or later, our grocery shopping.” She’s persistent, almost too persistent. There’s desperation in her voice at the thought of getting out to the outside world.

“We have enough food to last us, we’ll be fine.”

“But eventually…”

“We’ll be fine,” I reassure. I lie.

In truth, eventually, we’ll run out of food and, with no way out of the house, in all likeliness – we’ll starve to death. When I sealed us in I made sure there was no way out. No way of breaking down the brick walls of this old house to let the outside world infect our relationship. Yes, we’ll eventually starve to death but we’ll do it, lovingly, in each other’s arms - just the two of us.

“Well I’ll have to let my parents know, at some point, that I’m okay.”

I don’t answer back. I just look down and continue to eat my now-cold tuna steak. I don’t have the heart to tell her but her parents are currently looking after young Susie in the garage. I’m guessing the news won’t be great for our already fragile relationship.

I had been watching Vanessa for a while before I made my move. The first time I met her, at the bank, I didn’t even consider her to be girlfriend material as she had kept me waiting, in line, for so long and didn’t even apologise for the delay when she finally did serve me. I just thought, ‘that’s bad manners’.

It was the third trip to the bank, to transfer the last of my money into the one account, that I realised she was actually quite nice. She was certainly pretty. I put the first encounter down to her being hassled – either by customers or by her work colleagues. Whatever the reason; I forgave her.

Whenever I watched a potential girlfriend, I got to know her family too and I could see that Vanessa’s parents could have been a problem, as they seemed to be a very close family unit. On the second week I stopped watching Vanessa and concentrated on the parents – to learn their routine so I could, at a quiet time for them, meet up with them and explain my concerns about their role in my girlfriend’s, their daughter’s, life.

I’ve always found explaining things to be so much easier when the other party has been unconscious, dying or even dead. Sometimes, when people answer back, I can get flustered and fuck up what I’m about to say – losing the point that I am trying to make in the process.

In my head I can hear that I am rambling.

Although her parents both have a great deal of time for their daughter, I realised, when watching them, that they have very little time for each other. It was four nights before they left their smart home to do a trip together. Wednesday night.

To this day, I don’t know what is so special about Wednesday nights.

I followed their red, Mercedes estate car through the town and into the country – quiet country lanes that had the potential to be of use to me. After twenty minutes of steady driving through these roads they turned left onto what appeared to be a farmhouse. I didn’t follow, as that would be too suspicious. Instead I simply drove on up the road, hoping that there’d be a point where I could turn the car around further on up.

Turn the car around, drive back on myself, passed the farmhouse where their car still remained and a little further down the road where I could just stop in the middle of the road and put my hazards on. It was just a broken down car in the country – nothing strange or sinister about that. I’m just a poor stranger in need of some help. I just need to wait for the help to come.

Whatever Wednesday nights were about – it certainly wasn’t about getting home at a decent hour for an early morning start. The time had gone two in the morning by the time I saw a car’s headlights - a car, which turned out to be their Mercedes estate. Thank God.

I was too pumped up on adrenalin at that time to think about what I would have done if Vanessa’s parents hadn’t stopped to give me the help that, in actual fact, I didn’t need. Would I have had to chase them down and ram them from the road, leading to more ‘clean-up’ complications? Would I have had to abandon any thoughts of taking care of them and just hope that they wouldn’t come looking for their daughter? That wasn’t an option. A family that close, they would have looked. They wouldn’t have found her but I didn’t want the added pressure.

Thankfully, when I waved them down with a pathetic look on my face, her parents did pull over to the side of the road. At first the father got out to take a look under the bonnet and offer me the use of his mobile phone. When he didn’t return to his own car straight away the mother got out too. It’s amazing how much damage a metal bar makes to a human skull – even with a weak swing such as mine.

Their car was the perfect size to lay their bodies in, after I had put the back seats down and it was a far comfier drive to my home using the Mercedes than my clapped out old banger of a car. When I dumped the car in my garage and walked into the village to get a taxi, at four in the morning, I was almost dreading the same drive home, from where I left my car, having gotten used to the comfort that the Mercedes offered. By that time in the morning though, I was past caring and just sped along the country lanes as fast as I could – I knew Vanessa would be waking soon enough and I still had to finish cleaning up and running through the final checks.

A smile creeps onto my face as I cast my mind back to that night and take another bite of my tuna steak.

“What’s funny?” she asked.

“Nothing.” I couldn’t exactly tell her that the smell of her dead mother was what made me crave for a tuna steak.

She moved the conversation back, “You never said about me contacting my parents.”

I wonder if she believes in séances?

A New Day

Another day is about to start. I watch on the monitors as she stirs on the bed, twisting her body as much as the restraints allow. I don’t have a game plan for today. Truth be told, I thought she’d at least be out of the restraints by now, free to wander the house.

Had she been out of the restraints, today could have been used to give her the guided tour of her new home. Our home. Then we could have snuggled on the sofa sharing stories of our childhood.

Well, her childhood at least.

My childhood doesn’t exactly put people in the mood for sharing or romance. The bastard child of a whore, my earliest memories of watching my birth mother fuck another man on the bed. Who knows, perhaps this man was my real father?

As the years went on and I got older – I’d still be forced to watch and, if they paid enough, I was brought into their little games as well. Finally I got old enough to see sense and run away. Run as far as I could before turning back home. Where else was I supposed to go? I had no one else – not until Social Services got to hear about what was happening behind our closed doors and took me away from my mum. She didn’t care.

What my mum had with those men, that wasn’t love. What I have with Vanessa – that’s love. She doesn’t need to know about my past. I’ll make up a happier childhood for her to hear about when we come to share.

Her eyes are open now. A look of panic on her face as she realises where she is – the kind dreams the drugs awarded her obviously took her far, far away from here. From me. She isn’t ready to come out of the restraints yet.

Soon though, I hope.

“I’m sorry about last night,” she says as I walk into the room carrying a tray with some breakfast on it. “I didn’t mean to keep going on about my mum and dad, it’s just that I miss them.”

With the constant questions about her precious little mum and dad, I had no choice but to drug her again to shut her up. I didn’t want to but, perhaps, now she realises that line of questioning is a bit of a ‘no-no’.

“You know how much I miss them and we’ll leave it at that. Perhaps one day, when we have the trust you mention, you’ll permit me to get in touch with them,” she continues.

I smile at her as I un-cuff her wrists, leaving her ankles bound to the bed. A smile leaves her suggestion open – a possibility that I heard what she said and agree that, one day, I’ll let her make contact. There’s only one way she can see her mum and dad now, and I don’t think she’d like it.

“I understand why you injected me last night. I certainly didn’t want to upset you. You have to understand that this is all new to me and I’m just trying to get used to the situation. And you.”

Perhaps I am asking a lot of her.

“Maybe next time you could just say whether I am annoying you,” she carries on, “I want to earn your trust but it’s impossible to do that unconscious. If you just say that I’m doing something wrong, give me a warning, I can try and stop. You’ll see that I can do as you ask.”

A good idea; I never give them a chance normally. I just get stuck in with the pills and needles as soon as they get out of line. I’ll start to give her the benefit of the doubt - a good starting point at getting the trust between us.

“Okay,” I say.

She smiles at me and picks up the flower that sits on the side of the breakfast tray, smells it and places it down again before tucking into her cereal. It’s the first time I’ve seen her eat properly since she has been here; another good sign.

“Are you not eating?” she asks.

“I’m not hungry. I rarely eat first thing in the morning.”

She looks around the walls for something, “What time is it?”

“Morning time.” I say. I feel stupid telling her that I forgot to put any clocks in the house – other than the small clock on the bottom of my computer screen. When I prepared the house I was only thinking about ‘love’ and ‘love’ is eternal. Time doesn’t come into ‘love’.

“We don’t have any clocks?” she asks.

“No.”

“Who needs clocks when you have love, right?”

I’m starting to lose track of whether she is being genuine or not.

“Exactly.” I play along.

She swallows another mouthful of her cereal, “What are we going to do today?”

I’ll let her decide, I’ve planned enough.

“What did you want to do?” I ask.

“You could show me around the house.”

No. Too soon - I still don’t know whether I can trust her yet. I want to trust her; even with her bed-head she still looks hot.

I sow the seed of a different idea into her clever mind, “Perhaps we could just talk today, and learn more about each other.” Learn more about her, at least.

“Okay, if that’s what you want,” she says. She looks like she wants to say something else but stops herself.

“What’s wrong?” I ask.

She puts the tray and near empty bowl on the bedside table and sits up, “I was wondering whether you could undo my ankles? If it makes you feel happier you can always lock the bedroom door but I won’t try anything. I promise.”

I look her in the eye. She looks sincere now. I believe her.

“I’ll tell you what, I’ll undo your cuffs and take your tray downstairs. Give you some time to get changed into something from your wardrobe.”

She looks over to her wardrobe and sees the clothes all hanging there for her to choose from, “That’d be nice.”

“Do you want to go to the bathroom first?” I ask.

“Yes, please.”

I use the handcuff keys to free her swollen ankles and she immediately starts to rub them, “They’re sore.” I just smile at her, feeling a little bad that I put them on her for so long. Perhaps I should have just bound one wrist – it’s not like she can go anywhere anyway. Shake the ‘self-doubt’ from my mind. It’s her fault she’s not out of the cuffs yet.

“I’ll take you through to the bathroom.”

She stands up, her bones creaking back into place as she’s permitted the freedom to stretch again, “That feels so good,” she laughs. She leans forward and kisses me on the cheek, “Thank you.”

A nice surprise, “No problem,” I stutter.

I turn away from her, hiding my embarrassment, “This way,” and lead her through to the bathroom. I open the door and she goes in.

“I won’t be long.”

“Just go through to the bedroom, when you are done.” I say. I’m not going anywhere but, if she thinks I’ve gone downstairs, maybe she’ll try something again, like last time. She smiles at me and closes the door.

I wait. I can hear water running from within the room and I can hear her splashing around as though she’s having a wash. Perhaps she is. Another noise, a quiet humming. Is she singing to herself? I want to believe that she’s actually having a proper wash as opposed to just getting ready to run out on me – or try at least.

The humming has stopped now. I can’t hear anything other than the water running. This is it – the door is about to open. Here she comes – any minute now.

The door doesn’t open.

I press my ear against the door. She’s brushing her teeth. My heart starts to slow down again. Perhaps she can be trusted. I stand up just as the door opens revealing Vanessa with a towel wrapped around her, her pyjamas in her hands. She jumps when she sees me.

“Sorry, you scared me. I thought you had gone downstairs.”

I lie, “I was just on my way.”

She smiles at me; she knows I was waiting for her, “I presumed the pink toothbrush was mine.”

I smile back, “Yes.”

For the first time since she has been awake, I’m feeling excited. She didn’t try to run. She does want to be with me. A mental note to myself, don’t be so suspicious.

Progress

“What do you think?” Vanessa asks.

She’s pacing the bedroom, wearing a figure hugging blue dress that she chose from her wardrobe. It looks good. She looks good.

“I like it.” I reply.

Why wouldn’t I like it? If I didn’t like it then I wouldn’t have bought it for her in the first place.

She moves back over to the wardrobe and starts going through the clothes that I bought her again, like a little child in a toyshop.

“I’ve had relationships with men in the past who were seeing me for months and yet they still couldn’t get my size right. You’ve known me for days and yet you’ve got it spot on.” She pulls out the red PVC dress and holds it against herself, “Ooh la la.”

Tease. I can’t wait for her to want to wear that one. My heart sinks as she puts it back into the wardrobe, “I love them all.”

“Sit down with me, you’re making me tired with all your running around.” It’s nice to see her excited but I want her to sit with me. I want her to talk with me.

“Sorry, I just love the idea of having a complete new collection of clothes – what woman wouldn’t?” She sits with me.

“And shoes…”

“Shoes?”

“I’ve bought you lots of different shoes too.”

She smiles at me, “You really have thought of everything.”

“I like to think so.”

She looks at me expectantly, like I am supposed to say something, “Well, I’m sitting with you,” she says still waiting for me to tell her why, or do something. She’s slightly breathless from her previous excitement and pacing of the room, obviously not as fit as she could be, the heavy breathing causing her breasts to heave. Her lips opened ever so slightly as she breathes from her mouth. Her lips: so kissable. I shake the thought from my mind; she won’t thank me yet for a kiss. “What’s wrong?” she asks.

I realise that I’ve just been rudely staring at her; I smile a true smile of embarrassment and look away, “Nothing.” I lie. I want her. “I just thought we could talk together,” I stutter, “I don’t really know much about where you grew up or what your mum and dad were like.”

“What my mum and dad are like,” she corrects me. At least, she thinks that she corrects me. I know very well what they are like now – a little off colour with grey, pappy skin and a foggy, dark mist sucking the colour from their lifeless eyes and a smell of Tuna from her mother.

“I just don’t really know much about your past.”

“What do you want to know,” she asks as she starts to play with her hair, moving it out of her pretty eyes, “Where do you want me to start?”

“Tell me about your parents,” I kick start her in the right direction, let’s see what makes her parents so perfect that she can’t live without them.

“They aren’t my real parents.”

What?

“My real parents died before I got to know them. Keith and Lilly were my foster parents who looked after me since I was two. I just like to think of them as my real mum and dad,” she smiles, “They’ve never made me want for anything, they’ve always been there for me and they’ve always loved me as though I were their real daughter.”

I feel something strange in the pit of my stomach. What is that? Is that guilt? No. I don’t feel guilt. It’s probably just wind.

“Every year we go away together, on a nice family holiday and, although I work hard at the bank, they never want my money or make me pay for anything. I try but they say it’s their right to be able to spoil their daughter.” Her eyes are starting to well up. I need to change the conversation before she starts crying. I can’t handle it when women cry. It frustrates me.

“My mother was a whore.”

There was probably a better way to turn the conversation around to stop any impending tears but it was the first thing that I thought of and I couldn’t help but blurt it out as my own mind betrayed me.

“What?” she wipes her eyes, also frustrated by the ‘welling up’.

“She used to make me sit and watch her when I was younger. Watch her fuck men. As I got older sometimes I was forced to join in.”

Shut up. Why am I telling her this? Just shut up.

“That’s terrible,” she states the obvious.

“If I put up a struggle, when the men raped me or played with me whilst my own mother took a strap-on to me, they’d take it in turns to whip me with a leather belt as I lay on the bed, tied down.”

I look at Vanessa’s bed. The restraints securely on the corners of the bed, ready for me to put Vanessa into them. Am I as bad as my mother? I need to be able to trust her. I need to be able to get rid of the restraints.

“So what did you do?” asked Vanessa with what appears to be a true look of concern on her face.

“Eventually social services got wind of what was happening and took me away from it all. They put me with a new family. The owners of this old building.”

The two of us, sitting there, thinking about our foster parents – without realising it when I chose Vanessa, I was chose a girl that already shared something in common with me.

“So where are they now?” she asks. I think she really is interested in me now.

“They’re dead. My foster dad died a few years back and my foster mum died early last year.”

I blink. Wet. My eyes are welling up. Jesus. Pull yourself together!

“I’m sorry,” she says as she leans over to me and embraces me in a warm, safe hug. I breathe her sweet scent in deep into my lungs. Coconut. After her wash this morning, she smells as good as she looks.

She pulls away from the embrace but stays inches away from my face, hey eyes staring deep into mine. She closes her eyes and moves her face closer until I can feel the warmth of her breath close to my lips. I close my eyes.

A kiss.

A peck on the lips.

Another peck on the lips.

My mouth slightly opens in response to hers and I feel her tongue enter my mouth as our lips lock together. My tongue strokes against hers as they explore each other. I like the taste of the Aquafresh toothpaste.

A few more seconds and she pulls away from me. I open my eyes whilst her eyes are still closed. A few more seconds and she slowly opens her eyes, as though she’s just come back from Heaven.

“I’m sorry,” she says licking her lips.

“Don’t be.” I smile at her.

“I don’t know what came over me.”

I want to take things further but I know it’s not appropriate. I’ll just wait for her to make the first move. I don’t want to ruin anything.

“I don’t think we need the restraints anymore.” I say. I trust her. That kiss felt real. That kiss felt nice.

She smiles and leans in for another kiss; just a peck on the cheek this time. I’ll take anything she offers.

“Thank you,” she says.

Thank you. Had I known that would have been my reward for sharing, I would have shared a long time ago.

Out Of The Comfort Zone

Eventually he went downstairs to prepare dinner for us. I thought he’d never leave me alone. I can still taste him. I can still feel his rough tongue on my tongue. I feel sick. I’m thankful to whatever God exists that he stopped there and didn’t try and take things further.

Forget about that though. I’m one step closer to freedom – one step closer to being with my mum and dad again. It’s been so long since I’ve been outside, I’m even starting to miss my job and that’s saying something!

He trusts me now. Not completely but at least it’s a step in the right direction again. I just can’t afford to take any steps backwards again. Keep out of those restraints. Get myself more time to wander around the house how I please without him following me every step of the way.

He’s left the bedroom door open. I won’t leave the room yet though. It’s too obvious – like he is inviting me to try and run again. Testing me. I won’t fall for it. I won’t undo all the good work I’ve already done. The thought of kissing him for nothing sends a cold shiver down my spine. Stop thinking about it – it’ll only make it harder if I have to kiss him again although I do hope to be out of here before that becomes a possibility.

I move off the bed, on which I am still sitting, and go back to the wardrobe, filled with clothes. So much blue and black, where is the variety? I dread to look at the shoes he has chosen. I half expect to find Dr Martins or Caterpillar boots – picked out in different colours to try and compliment the hideous dresses he has purchased.

It’s a shame we can’t leave the house. We could have had a nice day in town, exchanging everything for clothes that are halfway decent. Ooh. I can hear him coming up the stairs. Quick, fake interest in the clothes again. Pretend not to hear him. Pretend that you weren’t listening out for his return.

“Dinner’s cooking.”

Great. I have to get out of here. I can’t live the rest of my life with the same boring routine. Wake up, breakfast, have a chat, dinner, have a chat, tea, have a chat, bed. I don’t see how he thinks this will work.

“Have you found a favourite yet?” he’s referring to the dresses that line the rack in front of where I am standing.

“I like them all. Maybe I’ll spend an afternoon trying them on if you are ever busy doing something else.” He may pretend to be busy, but I know he’ll just be in the other room watching me through the CCTV.

“Just let me know when and I’ll leave you to get on with it. Perhaps you could model the ones you like the best for me?”

“I’d already thought about that for you.” I lie.

The more I think about him watching me, eyeing my body up, the more it creeps me out. Even when he’s not in the same room, I know he’s close-by – like a predator lying in wait.

There’s silence again. This keeps happening, a little small talk and then nothing. It’s uncomfortable and yet he just stands there with the same look on his face as though he’s judging me and sizing me up – waiting for me to take the initiative yet I have nothing to say. What do you say to someone who has you imprisoned against your will? Anything. Keep him happy.

Keep him trusting.

“What are we having for dinner?” I ask as I frantically try and think of something else to say.

“It’s a surprise.” Just like that, he kills the conversation.

Think. Think before I ruin my earlier attempts to gain his trust. Go back to using my sexuality. He responded to the kiss. Go back to that.

“Was I out of line earlier, when I kissed you?” I ask.

He smiles at me. “No. It was nice.”

Nice for him perhaps.

I move closer to him and stroke his chest through his shirt.

“I wasn’t sure whether we were moving too fast. It just seemed like the right thing to do.”

“I liked it.”

He liked it. I shudder.

“So did I.” I never used to be able to lie when I was growing up. I used to go a red colour in the cheeks – a colour that always gave me away. Recently though, I’ve been able to lie.

With no warning he suddenly grabs me around my shoulders and pulls me closer to him before kissing me hard. I’m not ready. I try not to gag as his tongue trespasses into my mouth. Close my eyes. Pretend it’s someone else. Johnny Depp. It’s a lot to ask of my imagination to believe that this monster kisses in the same league as Johnny but I try. It helps me relax into the kiss. It helps me be more responsive to his flicking tongue. Keep my eyes shut. Keep my imagination working overtime.

Much to my relief he stops and gently pushes me away, “I’m sorry,” he says.

I’m not.

“I didn’t mean to do that,” he continues.

“It’s okay,” I purr another lie without going red in the face. I’m getting good at this - a real professional, “it was nice.”

It wasn’t nice but I’m completely in control now.

“How long is dinner going to be?” I ask.

I know what I have to do. I have to go far out of my comfort zone to earn the final bit of trust between us. I just hope he believes me so it’s not a completely wasted gesture.

“About forty-five minutes,” he replies.

“Well,” I can’t believe I’m going to offer this but I need his trust and can’t think of another way of earning it as quickly, “Did you want me to try on the red dress for you?”

He goes red in the face and a small schoolboy smile turns the corners of his mouth upwards, “Would you?”

“Sure. It’ll be fun.”

It won’t be fun. It’ll be uncomfortable but at least there’s a time limit on it – he’s always watching how much I eat and I know he won’t let dinner go to waste.

“Unless you want to try it on after dinner?” he suggests.

Fuck.

Long Afternoon

I stare into my stew and idly swirl my spoon around the mixture, upsetting the strange looking meat and vegetables. I can’t get this afternoon out of my head and how far I am going to have to go with him.

“Do you not like it?” he asks.

I look up at him. He isn’t looking at me. He’s too busy wolfing his food down with an unnecessary speed that’s sure to cause indigestion. Perhaps that’s no bad thing. If he has indigestion he may not try anything when I model the dress for him.

“It’s a bit hot, I’m just cooling it down.” I lie. I’m not in the mood for eating. My appetite has gone. I can’t show him though. I need to pretend to be excited about this afternoon.

“It tastes great,” he takes another mouthful.

I need to pretend to be excited about the meal too. If not – that could put him in a bad mood. How did this happen? One minute I was in control and now I feel as though he has taken it away from me again.

He looks up, “If you aren’t hungry I could always reheat it for you later on.”

Stop being silly, take a mouthful. Drag out this meal for as long as possible so as to avoid going upstairs. I spoon a lump of meat into my mouth and chew slowly as though I’m savouring the taste.

“What meat is it?” I ask, unsure.

“My own secret recipe. If I told you, I’d have to kill you.” He laughs.

I don’t laugh. I don’t think he is joking.

He continues to shovel more food into his mouth. Does he really like it that much he can’t get enough of it – or is he trying to eat it as fast as possible just to get upstairs with me? I dread to think. I take another small mouthful, even though it tastes completely alien to me.

“You had me worried for a bit, yesterday,” he said with a mouthful, “I thought things weren’t going to work out between us even after all the careful planning I put in place.”

Things aren’t going to work out between us.

He pushes his plate to one side. I’ve hardly touched mine and yet he’s cleared his, “That was lovely.”

My heart skips a beat. He’ll be ready to go upstairs soon. Stall him.

“If it’s just the two of us, with no one else to talk to or bother us, why can’t you let me know what your secret recipe is?” I ask hoping to engage him in a long, drawn out conversation.

“I need my secrets.” He smiles again and takes a swig from his plastic cup of wine.

“How am I supposed to cook it for you?”

“I do the cooking.”

His face changes at the mere suggestion of me going in the kitchen and preparing food for him. Leave it. Drop it. Don’t push him. Keep things happy between us.

“Oh, okay.” I say with yet another fake smile.

I take another mouthful; careful not to accidentally spoon any more of the meat into my mouth, and his face lightens a little.

“Are you ready to go upstairs?” he asks.

He reminds me of an impatient child, dying to leave the table to play with his new toy. Even if I said ‘no’ to him, I don’t think he would take it as a final answer.

“Sure.”

I’m nervous. I don’t want this. I don’t have a choice. I push my plate away from my place setting as a final show that I’ve finished.

“Do you want a hand out with the plates?” I ask, still hoping to stall him. Still hoping to stall us.

“I’ll worry about them later,” he stands up and offers me his hand. I smile and take it, all the time telling myself to stay strong. “Are you sure about this?” he asks.

I am sure about this. I’m sure that I don’t want to do it.

“Yes.” I smile. The fake smile that’s so used to creeping across my face now, “It’ll be fun.”

He leads me out of the dining room and up the stairs. I feel as though my heart is louder than our footsteps on the creaking stairs. I hope he can’t hear it. I hope he can’t hear it give away my nervousness.

“I’m just going to freshen up. Do you want to go through and put it on then?” he asks as he stops at the top of the stairs.

No.

“Okay.”

He lets go of my hand and watches as I walk towards the room. I stop just before I go in and turn to him, “Don’t be too long.” I give him a little wave (I don’t know where that came from) and vanish into the room. I hear the bathroom door close behind him.

Fuck.

I’m alone. I know where he is. I know there’s no way of him seeing what I am doing whilst he is in the bathroom. I could run. I should run. No. I should stay. Carry on building the trust up. If I did try and run he’d hear me as soon as I got close to the stairs - this old house with the noisy fucking floorboards.

The toilet flushes. He’ll be out soon.

I close the bedroom door and take a deep breath. I have to do this. There’s no point in putting it off. It’s going to happen. I might as well just get it over with. I cross the room to the wardrobe and pull the red, PVC dress from where it hangs. It’s fucking hideous.

I hear him at the door, “Vanessa?”

“Don’t come in, I’m just changing. I want you to see the finished look.”

“Okay. Give me a shout if you need anything or are ready.”

No turning back now. He’s expecting it. If I suddenly dash his hopes he’s only going to get angry – maybe even put me back into the restraints.

I unzip myself from the dress and slide it down my body, stepping out of it the first opportunity I get. I hold the PVC dress up and admire it. At least I pretend to admire it. It’s still hideous but I know he’s probably watching via the CCTV. Don’t look at the camera. Don’t let on you know he’s watching you.

I kick my underwear off and step into the PVC dress. It’s cold against my skin. As I pull it up my nervous body it feels tight. It’s the first time I’ve worn anything like this. From the way that it feels, I’m hoping it’ll be the last. Part of me hopes that he doesn’t like the look of it, once I’m wearing it, and yet the other part of me hopes he can’t get enough of it. The more he likes it, the more chance there is I’ll be rewarded with free reign of the house – and ultimately, my freedom.

I pull on the zip at the back of my dress. It’s on. I can barely breathe. I wonder whether that’s because of the dress or my nerves.

“I’m ready.” I call out.

I’m not ready. I’ll never be ready for him but I may as well get it over with. There is no sense delaying the inevitable.

I perch myself seductively on the edge of the bed and look on as the bedroom door slowly opens with him standing there. Standing there, looking at me. I stand up and give him the full effect of the dress.

“Well...?” I ask, hiding my anxiety.

He doesn’t say anything for a while. He just continues to stand there, mouth wide open, “You look great.”

“It feels great,” I still hate it, “Have a feel.” I offer. I don’t want him to feel but if I just put the dress on and take it off again, he’ll think I’m just teasing him and I won’t make any progress.

“Are you sure?” he asks politely.

I wasn’t expecting that. I was expecting him to just lunge for me. I was expecting him to make a move as soon as the door opened and yet, so far, he’s been a perfect gentleman. If anything – he seems a little uneasy.

“Of course.” I walk over, stand directly in front of him and watch as he gingerly raises his hands and strokes the side of my body through the PVC. ‘Don’t think about it’, I keep telling myself.

The touch of his hands, against my sides, sends little shivers through my body. I long for him to get embarrassed and stop, but he doesn’t and it’s not long before his hands are roaming the rest of my body; my stomach, my breasts, the top of my back, my lower back and caressing my buttocks – all through the cloth.

“I like it,” he says.

My heart sinks.

I pull myself closer to him until our bodies are touching. I can feel that he likes it, his erect penis straining against his jeans. I want to stop. I can’t stop.

“Kiss me,” I plead.

Shut your eyes. Think of someone else. Johnny.

He doesn’t wait to be asked again, probably scared that I’ll change my mind. I won’t change my mind, as much as I’d like to. He kisses me, starting with a peck on the lips, as we started the last time we kissed together. Another kiss on the lips again, I open my mouth slightly to allow a deeper kiss. He senses my invitation and kisses me deeply. I make all the right noises as my mind takes me to another place far away from here.

His hands tightly clenched around my buttocks. Let go. Please. He doesn’t. Just take it to the next step. Get it over with.

“What do you think of my underwear?” I ask.

His hands move underneath the PVC dress, still around my back. I feel a twitch as he realises I’m not wearing any underwear. For the first time since seeing me in the dress, he smiles – the smile of a monster.

“Are you wearing any?” I ask pretending that I want to know the answer. I deserve a medal as I unbutton his jeans and let them drop to the floor, freeing him. His isn’t wearing any.

He pulls away from me, “Are you sure you want this?”

He wants this. I can see that clearly. I know, deep down, that if I go through with it – I’ll have freedom soon after.

“Do you have any protection?” I ask. I don’t know what to do if he hasn’t.

“I’ll get some.” He kicks his jeans off completely and gives me a quick kiss before leaving the room. It takes all of my willpower not to make a run for it there and then. I wonder though, would he chase me down the street with no trousers and pants on? Be strong. Stand your ground.

I don’t stand my ground for long before he comes back into the room, holding a packet of condoms in his left hand. I smile at him as I take them from him and use my teeth to tear the clear wrapping off. Show him I want this as much as he does. Take charge of the situation.

“Sit on the bed,” I order him. He doesn’t move.

“After you.”

“I turn from him and walk, nervously, to the bed. This is it. There is definitely no turning back now. When I get to the foot of the bed I feel his hands around my shoulders and he spins me round to face him.

“You look so fucking hot,” he whispers.

Something is wrong. He’s changed. He’s gone from being a stuttering schoolboy – scared at his next sexual encounter – to the predator I’ve seen in him before. He kisses me again before pushing me back onto the bed.

I’ve lost the control.

“I’ve wanted this since I first saw you,” he tells me as he strokes my arms before taking hold of my wrists and moving them up to the restraints.

“What are you doing?” I ask. I don’t like where this is going.

“I’m sorry, I have to.”

The cuffs lock my wrists above my head. Once again I’m his prisoner. This is it.

“Please, go slow,” I beg trying not to sound like the scared little girl that I am.

I look to my hand and notice that I’m still clutching onto the condoms. It doesn’t matter now. It’s too late as he pushes deep inside of me, letting out a long sigh as he does. I’m not wet enough and the first few thrusts sting.

Afterwards

I want to weep but I can’t. I just lay on the bed with my eyes closed pretending to be in a post-coital state of bliss. I’m in a post-coital state of horror as I feel his sperm trickle out of my vagina, dampening the mattress. I try and move from the wet patch but my wrists are still cuffed and I can’t move far enough over.

I don’t know where he is. As soon as he came he pulled out and left the room. I expect he’s watching me though and that’s why I can’t show my true emotions. I need him to believe it was what I wanted but with my wrists still cuffed, I fear I put myself through that for nothing.

I fidget uncomfortably as the hot PVC sticks to my sweaty flesh. It’s starting to itch now and I want to call for him so he can free me – perhaps even let me have a wash; wash away my shame.

“Peter?” I call out, quietly at first for fear of disturbing him and getting him angry and then louder when I realise I’m being stupid and want him to come to me, “PETER?”

Nothing.

For a brief moment I kid myself that all he ever wanted, all along, was sex and that he’ left now. Gone on to find another girlfriend. My heart sinks as I hear footsteps coming up the stairs, the creaky floorboard giving them away as they continue to get closer to the bedroom door.

“Yes?” The door opens, “What’s wrong?”

Think fast. Keep him happy.

“I missed you, I wondered where you went,” a good lie.

“I thought you might have wanted a nap, or something. I was getting you a snack together for when you woke up. Did you want anything?”

Be honest.

“Could you let me out of the dress?”

His face changes, “You don’t like it?”

Keep him happy.

“I love it, I’m just hot and sticky. I’m going to need to freshen up!” I smile at him.

He cracks a smile, “Yes, of course, I’m sorry.”

He walks over to me and undoes my wrists, allowing me to sit up, allowing me to get out of the wet patch – the sheet on the mattress sticking to my inner thigh.

“Could you?” I refer to the zip on the back of my dress. He doesn’t hesitate to undo it for me. I sense relief as the cool air hits my skin, “Thank you.”

“I’ll let you get freshened up and then show you around, if you want.”

“You mean I’m free to wander around?”

“Sure. There’s a couple of rooms that are out of bounds but I’ll show you around so you know where they are and then, help yourself.” He smiles again before leaning forward and kissing me on the forehead. The sort of kiss a father would give to his daughter before leaving for a day at the office; the sort of kiss that I miss from my father.

It won’t be long now. I’m in control again.

“Give me a shout when you are ready to look around, I’ll be downstairs,” and with that, he stands and leaves the room – leaves me with a new sense of both hope and freedom. Today’s the day. This is it.

I stand up and slowly peel the dress off before kicking it into the corner of the room. I’m done with it. I won’t need it anymore.

Stop. Gather your thoughts. He’s probably still watching you. He’ll probably continue to do so for a while – watch what you do with your newfound freedom. The important thing is not to be too hasty. It’ll be so easy to undo all the hard work I’m put in so far. Take your time. Relax. Make sure he’s relaxed. He does seem to be relaxed.

I walk over to the wardrobe and pull a light, summery dress from the rack and throw it over myself. I know I’m just going to take it off again when I get into the bathroom to wash away the stench of his touch but I don’t want to walk around naked. I don’t want to put that thought back into his head.

It’s weird walking to the bathroom. It feels wrong – like he’s about to jump out on me and curse me for trying to run. I look around nervously, am I really allowed to walk around without him? Is he watching me still?

I call down the stairs to try and find out where he is, “Pete could you get me a cup of tea when you get a minute please?”

“I’ll bring it right up.”

He’s downstairs. He is giving me room to move around. Little by little, I relax a little more, “Thank you, I’ll be in the bathroom.” I close the door behind me, hoping that he has the decency to knock before coming in.

The taps are on full and yet they can’t fill the bath quick enough. I can feel where he’s been and I feel violated. I feel disgusted. Fill, damn you bath, fill. I pour bubble bath in, more than what I need but not as much as what I want. Let it cleanse him from my soul. I can’t stop thinking about the unopened condom and I worry myself as to whether he’s clean or not.

Worry about it later. Just get in the bath. Let it fill around you. Shut your eyes for a while. Visit a happy place. I climb into the bath and shut my eyes tight. Before I get a chance to take myself to the happy place there’s a knock at the door.

“Did you want it in there?” comes his voice from beyond.

“Yes, please.”

After what I’ve been through it takes even more effort to sound convincing, to sound pleased to hear from him. Nevertheless the door swings open and he comes in, holding out a hot cup of tea in front of him - a hot cup of tea that I don’t even want.

“Here,” he says as he puts it on the side barely paying attention to the fact that I’m naked in front of him – much to my relief.

“Thank you.”

“Did you want me to scrub your back?” he asks as if we were a normal couple.

I want you to fuck off and die. Think it. Don’t say it. Force another smile. Come on, girl, you’re doing well. You’re nearly there.

“No, but thank you. I’ll be out soon. I can’t wait to look around the house,” another lie from the champion of liars. To be more precise I can’t wait to find out where all the possible exits are.

“There’s no rush. We have all the time in the world.”

No, we haven’t.

“I’ll leave you to it, if you need anything else just give me a shout, I’m never far away.”

And that’s the problem.

“Thank you,” I say with another well-practised smile.

As he closes the door, “Enjoy your bath.”

The Guided Tour

A mental note to myself, apologise for the lack of condom. I got carried away. She looked so good in that dress it was hard not to. She hasn’t mentioned it; maybe she only wanted me to wear a condom for my own peace of mind. Perhaps she was just being polite by asking for protection and that she didn’t really want it. I know some girls don’t like the feel of the rubber. Maybe she’s one of those girls? Be on the safe side and apologise anyway, it won’t hurt.

She’s drying herself off in the spare room, occasionally looking at the camera and smiling at me. I can’t believe how far we have come in such a short space. This is even better than I had imagined it. I thought it would be at least ten days before we got to have sex with each other. I have to keep pinching myself to see if I am dreaming or not.

So this must be what ‘true love’ is. I feel privileged and sorry for my real mum for never finding it for herself.

Vanessa’s nearly ready now, sliding into the same dress as this morning. I’ll wait for her to call me so she doesn’t see that I’ve been spying on her even though I can’t help it. I love watching her – even more so now that I know she likes me too.

She waves to the CCTV camera, no doubt in an effort to signal she’s ready for me. I won’t acknowledge her. Wait for her to call me, another wave of her dainty little hand and another gesture for me to ignore. She’ll call and I can go in pretending I was busy elsewhere in the house. I could always say that I was doing some last minute tidying before she sees the place. Just as an excuse. The house doesn’t need anymore tidying – even her parents, young Susie and the others smell nice and lemony at the moment.

They had a whole can yesterday and should be good for at least another day. Maybe two. I won’t push it to ‘three’ though. Once the odours start they have a bad habit of creeping around the rest of the house before you can do anything about them.

Three waves now. Does she not get the message?

“PETER!” she calls.

Hallelujah!

“Coming.” I call back, not that she can hear me from within this room. I flick the monitor off and make sure I’ve locked the computer, just in case, before leaving the room to get to Vanessa.

“Peter?”

I meet her outside of the spare room just as she comes out to investigate my whereabouts, “Sorry about that, I thought you were going to come and find me when you were ready,” a lie. I would have been upset if she had left the room, in this instance, without waiting for me. I want to show her the house together – let her see what is off limits before leaving her to her own devices. The fact that she waited in the room for me though, that’s a good sign and another show of trust and respect.

“Sorry, I didn’t know.”

“No need to apologise.” None whatsoever. If anyone should apologise it’s me for doubting you again. I must stop doing that. I’m obviously not taking notice of my mental note to myself to stop being so suspicious.

“So, what now?” she ask with a keen look on her face.

“I’ll show you around.” I take her arm and interlock it with mine as though we are about to walk down the aisle together, “So this is upstairs,” I point out the obvious.

“I’ve seen upstairs,” she laughs.

The first room we come to is the computer room with its door shut firmly and the lock keeping us at bay, as I demonstrate to her.

“This is my private room. Under no circumstances can you come in here.” I sound stricter than I need to be but I can’t help myself. I don’t want her prying where she’s not welcome.

“Understood,” I was worried a locked room would cause issues but she doesn’t seem to care and looks towards the next room, “and that room?”

The main bedroom; she’s seen it already and I did promise that she could move in when things were good between us. Things are good between us.

“Did you want to move in with me this afternoon?” I wish I could just order her to move in with me but I don’t want to force her into anything she’s not happy with. It has to be her choice – like the PVC dress.

“Can I?” a genuine look of pleasure and excitement on her face and a red glow to her cheeks. Of course she can.

“Sure, you can get you things together when I make tea tonight, if you’d like.” I wonder whether we can make love again tonight. I feel a twitch. Put the thought out of your head. It’s not appropriate now. Get back to the guided tour, “through there is obviously the bathroom. I’ll show you downstairs.”

The guided tour is starting to look redundant now – in actual fact there aren’t many rooms that she hasn’t already seen but she doesn’t show her dissatisfaction – if anything, she seems to be taking more of an interest in her surroundings. Another positive step, I think to myself.

Downstairs doesn’t take long either. I show her the dining room that she is used to eating in, the small cupboard under the stairs that holds the many board games I have stockpiled and the front room that only has a sofa and small table in it – the small table, again, being bolted to the floor.

“Why is everything bolted down?” a fair question escapes her precious lips.

“I don’t like things being moved around. OCD.” Blame an illness, she can’t argue with that. Things are bolted down so she can’t use them to hurt herself, me or attempt to get out. Not that she would now.

“I just thought it would be nice to move things together, decide where we want things,” she continues.

“No. I like the things where they are.”

She moves the conversation on, “And the kitchen?”

I walk her through to the kitchen but can’t show her much of it due to having to clamber over cartons and containers filled with different food groups – all stacked up high to the ceiling and forming a maze around the large room.

“Fuck me!”

If you insist, I think to myself.

“Do you think we have enough food?” she asks, “How am I supposed to find things to choose for us to eat?”

“Chances are, if you like it, I have it.” I reassure her.

She walks down the corridor of containers and peeks around the corner. More containers – all stacked just as high as the first corridor. There’s a door at the far end of the room.

“What’s through there?” she asks.

Does she mean other than her dead mother and father?

“It’s locked,” tell another lie, “It’s where I put the rubbish.” Not entirely a ‘lie’.

“Fair enough.” She turns to me, “It’s a nice house, and I love what you’ve done with the place.”

“Thank you.” I’m still shocked that she doesn’t mind the locked doors -shocked but relieved. She walks back to me and kisses me on the cheek.

“I’m going to get my things and put them in our room,” she passes me and leaves the kitchen.

“Our room. I like that.”

Today has been a good day.

“I’m going to have a wash then,” I called after her, after the afternoon we’ve had together, I think I need one now.

“Okay,” her voice getting fainter as she retires to the spare room to start moving things out.

I double check that the garage door is locked and leave the kitchen, closing the door behind me.

First Chance

I’ve carried on pretending for long enough now and moved most of the clothes into the main bedroom. Admittedly the main bedroom is far more luxurious than the shit-hole he’s been keeping me locked in but it’s still not where I want to spend the rest of my days as a prisoner or a girlfriend. I have to get out of here and now’s a good a time as any – the bath water is still running in the other room and I can hear him splashing around, washing himself.

This is it.

This is my chance.

Stay calm. Stay quiet. Quiet as a mouse.

I creep out of the bedroom and stick as close to the walls as possible as I begin creeping across the landing to the top of the stairs. If I stick close to the walls I’m less likely to make the floorboards….

‘Creak.’

Damn it. Be careful. Don’t let him think you are out of the bedroom. If he thinks you are still moving things around in there, he’s more likely to stay in the bath. Less likely to call for you to join him to engage in more idle chit chat as you both continue to ‘get to know each other’.

I’m at the top of the stairs now, next to the bathroom door. The bath water is still gushing from the taps. The bath must be nearly full now. Why are they still running? I stop and listen carefully for a minute. Along with the running water, I can hear my heart beating loudly. It feels as though it’s going to burst from my chest. I’m scared.

I can’t be scared. Must stay strong. This is my chance. Don’t fuck it up. Stay calm. Stay quiet. Quiet as a mouse.

I tackle the first step.

‘Creak.’

Fuck.

Stop. Listen. More running water. Strong heart beat. It’s okay. Tackle the second step. Keep going. What if he comes out? Don’t think about that now. Think of nothing but getting out of the house. Stay calm. Stay quiet. Quiet as a mouse.

I move my other foot so it’s on the same step. There’s no ‘creak’ from the floorboards now. Good. But too slow. Speed things up. Get out of the house. I take the next step trying to make myself as light as a feather. There is the slightest of creaks. He wouldn’t have heard that. I’m safe. Go for the next step. Doing well.

I look at each step I’m about to stand on, trying to judge where the best placing for my foot is – trying to figure out where the floorboard is at its strongest.

I look ahead. There are ten more steps to go. Wait. Listen.

The water has stopped running, a bad sign. The running water was helping to drown out the noise of the stairs and now there’s nothing. My heart skips a beat. Pull yourself together. You’re so close. Stay calm. Stay quiet. Quiet as a mouse.

I take another step. There’s another ‘creak’ but now there are only nine more steps to go. I can do this. I have to do this. Thoughts of my mum and dad flash through my mind. Not now. I don’t need the distractions. Concentrate.

Another step is conquered. I’m starting to worry that I can’t hear him in the bathroom now. I keep expecting to hear him shout at me from the doorway. Part of me wants to give in and skip down the stairs, shouting to him that ‘I’m getting myself a glass of water and does he want anything?’ Don’t do it. Don’t give in. Another step and there’s only seven left, seven stairs, a short run, a front door and then freedom. Mum and dad.

What is he doing in the bathroom? How much time do I have?

I take another step, and another one, and another one, I’m getting quicker now ignoring the stairs calling out to the homeowner – warning him of my attempted escape.

“Vanessa?” his voice calls from the bathroom, “is that you?”

He heard me.

Fuck.

Stay calm. Stay quiet. Quiet as a mouse.

Just take another step and then jump the remaining ones. You’ll be louder but at least you’ll be close to the front door. What if it’s locked? Don’t think about that now. Worry about it later. I can’t help but worry about it. What if the front door is locked? Stay calm. I can run through to the back door – it might not be locked. He might have left it open. Concentrate on the task at hand.

“Vanessa?” he calls again. It doesn’t sound like he is in the bath.

Fuck.

I take my last step before jumping the remaining few. I land with a bump that he couldn’t have failed to hear. But it doesn’t matter. I don’t care if he does hear it. This is it. I’m nearly there. The front door is only a few feet away from me now.

“What are you doing?”

I spin around, terror on my face as I see him stood at the top of the stairs looking at me with a look of bemusement on his face, “What are you doing?” he repeats.

Fuck him. Don’t answer. Just go. This is your chance.

I spin around and run towards the front door and pull on the handle and it doesn’t budge. Locked.

Fuck.

I can hear him close behind me as he thunders down the stairs. I turn around to face him; perhaps I can still make a run for the back door. Perhaps it may not be locked…

Consequences

Her eye has bruised from the impact of my fist. That happened more or less straight away. Perhaps I hit her too hard? I didn’t mean to but I couldn’t help myself. I press a cold piece of meat against the bruise to try and take the swelling down. It’s funny but whenever you are hurt or feeling low – you always turn to your mother and here I am, with a piece of her mother trying to take away Vanessa’s pain.

She moans as I press it firmly against her skin. She’s coming too. Good. I have some questions for her.

“What…?” she whispers as her brain tries to make sense of what happened.

“Ssh.” I tell her, not because everything’s okay now and that I have her but because I don’t want to hear her voice just yet. I’m on the edge at the moment and I’m worried she’s going to take me to a place I’ll struggle to come back from.

“I’m sorry,” she continues.

I believe her. She is sorry. Sorry that she was discovered. Has she been playing me all along? I’m confused. I don’t know where I stand. We had sex. She must love me. Women don’t do that.

“I’m sorry,” she says again, “I’m sorry.”

I think I did hit her too hard.

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry…”

I think I broke her.

“Ssh.” I stroke her hair.

“I’m sorry.”

Shut the fuck up.

“I’m sorry.”

“Ssh,” I try and calm her again. Her good eye weeps a single tear. I wonder whether it’s a tear of sorrow or frustration from being so close and yet so far from escape.

“Please believe me, I’m sorry…”

I can’t help but feel sorry for her. I don’t pretend to know what she is going through but I know part of it must be hard. I just thought that our love would be strong enough to pull her through it.

“I’m sorry,” she’s crying now.

It doesn’t matter that I do feel sorry for her, or do believe that she’s sorry for the right reasons. She tried to escape and she has this coming.

“I’m sorry.”

I take her by the wrist and drag her from the bed, in the spare bedroom where I put her whilst she slept. She lands on the floor with a bump and lets out a small moan of pain. She doesn’t know pain yet. But she will.

She’s louder now, “I’m sorry. Peter, I’m sorry.”

Don’t listen to her. Teach her the lesson that needs to be taught.

I pull her through the spare bedroom’s doorway and let her go. She tries to get up but my foot on her shoulder stops her in her tracks.

“Please, Peter, I’m sorry.”

“I’ve tried to be nice to you. I’ve tried to love you. I do love you.”

“I love you too. I just miss my mum and dad. I’m sorry.”

Stop saying you are sorry. You have this coming. You need this. We need to go through this to progress – as a couple.

“LISTEN TO ME!” The anger is coming now. I want to stop it but I can’t, I’ll see this through to the conclusion and hope that she is able to see it through to the recovery. I beg myself not to take it too far. Deep down I don’t want it to go too far. On the surface though, there is no limit to where this will go. I can’t control the surface.

“Listen to me,” I repeat quieter but with a definite authority in my voice, “I love you. Why can’t you love me?”

“I do love you.” Tears continue to flow.

“Why did you have to try and run from me? Why do you want to run? I’ve provided everything you could wish for.”

“I don’t want to run from you. I just wanted to see my mum and dad. I was going to come back. I don’t want it to just be the two of us forever. I want you to meet my parents.”

“Your parents are dead!” I didn’t mean to say that. She’ll never forgive me if she learns the truth. Control the temper.

“My foster parents.”

She thinks I meant the foster parents. Thank God. The temper still controls me though. Don’t explain what you meant to her. Don’t tell her that her foster parents are also dead.

“I wanted you to meet my foster parents. I want a boyfriend that I can show off to people. One that I can be proud to be seen with,” she continues.

“And I want a girlfriend that doesn’t run. I want a girlfriend that loves me. I want a girlfriend that I can trust.” I’m halfway between shouting and talking. Control yourself, Peter.

“I won’t run. I promise. I was just homesick.”

“You’re right. You won’t run.”

I take hold of her barefoot and put it in the doorway, she’s still crying. Her crying is about to turn to screaming. A smile sneaks onto my face. A sadistic smile that I can’t control.

“Please – what are you doing?”

“I don’t want a girlfriend that’ll run.” I slam the door shut on her ankle and she lets out an ear-piercing scream that echoes through the empty house. An instant bruise swells across her already-tender ankle.

I offer no sympathy. Instead I pick her up and take her through the doorway back into the spare room where I drop her on the bed. She’s crying hard and whimpering how much it hurts but I don’t care. If I feel anything, it’s anger towards her. She made me do this. Not me.

I take her wrists and cuff them to the headboard before moving down the bed and slamming the other cuffs around her ankles – causing another scream. For a moment she struggles until she realises, within seconds, that she’s not going anywhere.

I hope she can forgive me.

I hope I can forgive her.

Unconditional Love

I love her so much.

I didn’t want to hurt her but I believe I wasn’t left with an option. I need to be able to trust her. I need to know she loves me too. She said she does love me but just needed to see her mum and dad. I want to believe her.

I think I feel guilt in the pit of my stomach as I watch her on the monitor. She is asleep now but it took a good few hours for her to get to sleep. I want to wake her and apologise. I want to wake her to see if she forgives me. I want, even more, to wake her and see if she apologises to me.

Let her sleep. I can talk to her later. I’m at a loss as to what to do now, though, I don’t like it when she sleeps or when things aren’t working between us. I find myself at a loss. I can’t believe how the day has changed so much.

“I’m sorry,” I mutter quietly to myself.

It doesn’t matter that she tries to run from me. Whenever she does anything wrong – it doesn’t matter, once I’m calmed down from the initial shock of discovering the wrongdoing. She could do anything – I’d still love her.

I wonder whether it would calm her down if I did let her see her mum and dad. In the long run – would she thank me? Perhaps the knowledge that they aren’t sat at home worrying about her whereabouts would make her feel better about our current situation. Don’t even think about it.

She won’t thank you.

She’d thank you even less when she realises you’ve been cutting bits from her dearly departed mother; her mother that smelt faintly of Tuna and tasted like beef.

That was strange.

Young Susie tasted like chicken.

I look to the monitor and forget my concern as I can’t help but wonder what Vanessa tastes like. Don’t go there. Don’t make things worse. They are bad enough already. I’m in control of the temper now. Had I not been in control I would have satisfied my curiosity and taken things too far to bring back. I keep telling myself – keep control.

She’s awake now. She hasn’t been awake for more than a minute before she starts to cry again. Let her cry. There’s nothing I can do for her. The pain will go, in time. It’s not a bad thing if the pain doesn’t go quickly. At least she won’t try and run again.

“Peter,” she cries out for me. She probably wants to beg me for painkillers. I’d want to give them to her, if that’s what she wants, but I also want her to learn from it. Would giving her painkillers teach her anything? Or would it just show her I’m a pushover.

It’s not just my temper I need to keep control of. I need to keep control of her.

“Peter, please I know you are there. Please, listen to me, I’m sorry,” she continues, looking directly at the monitor: directly at me.

I won’t go in. I’ll listen from here.

“I do love you. I promise I love you. Keep me chained up if you want, I’ll understand if that’s what you want. I was just missing my mum and dad. I want you to meet them. I want them to meet you, my boyfriend.”

She’s lying. Is she?

“I don’t want to run from you. I thought we had something special growing between us.”

I thought we had something special growing between us.

She ruined it.

“I know I ruined that but, please, let me fix it. Let me prove how much I love you. I still want to sleep in the same room as you. I want us to be able to cuddle up together. I want us to be able to play games together. Share stories, jokes and just chat together. I want us to be a proper couple.”

That’s all I’ve ever wanted from the first day I knew ‘love’ existed. I’ve only ever wanted a woman to love me. I’ve only wanted to find a woman I could give ‘love’ to – someone to care for and look after.

“Come on, please come and see me. Let me fix things for us. Let me try at least. Please just come in here and cuddle me, show me that everything is going to be okay between us.”

Stand your ground. Keep control. I can’t stand my ground. I need to go in. Everything she wants, I want. I flick the monitor off and leave the room, locking it behind me. I put the keys in my pocket as I opened the door to the spare bedroom.

She sees me, “I’m sorry.”

I can’t go in. I want to go in but I’m ashamed. I can see her ankle from here and I can clearly see that I’ve made a mess of it. Apologise to her.

No.

I have nothing to apologise for. She did this.

If you love her, you’d apologise to her anyway. She has apologised to you. You should apologise back.

“Please believe me, I’m sorry.”

Is she sorry because of the pain she’s in? Is she sorry because of the pain I’m in? I don’t know what to think anymore.

“Aren’t you coming in?” she asks.

I want to.

“Please come in. Hold me. Let me out so we can cuddle. Please.”

She’s begging.

I am in control.

I cautiously walk into the room and up to the bed. She tries to sit up to greet me but is stopped by the cuffs. I look down to her ankle and it’s swollen to nearly double the size of the other one.

“Hi,” she says to me with a sheepish look in her eyes.

“Hi.” I didn’t know what else to say, “How’s your ankle.”

“I’d rather know how we are.”

A clever answer if it’s a lie – it’ll make me believe she wants us to work more than how much pain her ankle is causing her which, by the looks of the swelling, should be significant.

“So,” she continues, “how are we?”

Answer her.

“I’d always love you,” my voice is quiet now, quieter than it has been for a good few days now. I’m sure she can sense my personal shame.

“Please hold me.”

I put my hand on her leg and give it a squeeze. An embarrassed smile twitches over my mouth and my little sign of affection starts her off crying again.

“I’m so sorry,” she says again as she pulls her wrists, struggling against her cuffs, “I want to hold you.”

Later. I’m not ready yet.

I stand up, “I’m going to start to get tea ready, is there anything special you want?”

“Whatever you want to make for me, will be great.”

I think for a while. It would be a shame to waste her mother.

Nothing’s Changed

I can barely think straight. The pain from my ankle is unbearable. I need to push it to the back of my mind and fix his trust in me. I need him to believe that I do still love him. I need him to allow me out of the cuffs again. Hopefully he will trust me again soon and allow me my confined freedom – he’s made it so I can’t run anywhere. As soon as my ankle heals, if it heals, I’ll try again. I’ll keep trying.

He’s going to have to kill me.

As I lay here, keeping my mind busy and trying to ignore the pain from my eye and ankle I realise that I’m going to need to get the keys to the locked rooms. With the keys, I’ll be able to open the front door and get out.

When my ankle heals I’ll be able to run.

The keys. Get the keys. There’s a thought easier said than done. He keeps the keys on him at all times, either in his pocket or, from what I’ve seen, on a chain around his neck. It’s not going to be easy. It will be less easy now he’ll be even more suspicious of me.

Fuck.

I can’t think of a way to get the keys. My ankle hurts too much. It might help if I could at least caress it; massage some of the pain away. Surely cuffing me to the bed was a bit much? Where does he think I am going to hobble? He’s taken control back.

Temporarily.

Come on, think Vanessa, think. How can you get the keys? Fuck the keys, how can you get out of the cuffs? All the time I’m stuck on the bed, all thoughts of escape are redundant. Forget the keys for a moment. How can I get out of these restraints?

I’m deep in thought when the door swings open, revealing Peter.

“Dinner won’t be long.”

“Okay.”

He doesn’t say anything else. He just continues to stand there, looking at me – a look on the face telling me that he wants to say something else. Perhaps I should try and start a conversation.

“Am I going to eat it up here?” I ask, hoping that he’ll allow me out of the restraints.

“Did you want to?”

“I want to be with you,” I know he’s angry but I also know that he’ll want to be with me. His love for me is nothing but his downfall, “I want to be with you for dinner, and for ever. If that means it just has to be the two of us, I can accept that. Just as long as I have you.”

He pulls a key ring, crammed with different sized keys, from his pocket. The keys are kept in his pocket. Forget about the keys. Get out of the restraints and then worry about them.

“You won’t try and run?” he asks.

Of course I will – just as soon as my ankle permits it.

“No. I won’t.”

He singles a small silver key, the smallest in the bunch, and uses it to unlock the cuffs. Don’t sit up. Wait for him to invite you to sit up.

He looks at my ankle, “Did you want me to carry you downstairs?”

“I’ll try and walk.”

I need to get used to walking on my bad ankle, no matter how much it hurts. He helps me sit up and takes a step back, ready to catch me should I stand and fall.

I stand.

I wobble.

I don’t fall.

It hurts though; I don’t dare put all of my weight on it.

“Are you okay?” he asks with a genuine look of concern.

No, I’m not.

“Yes, I am.”

“Are you sure you don’t want me to carry you?”

I don’t want you to touch me.

“Perhaps you could help support me?” I ask begrudgingly. He takes my arm and we walk from the room – slowly. Pain shoots from my ankle with every tender step.

Ignore it. Don’t give in to the pain. Don’t show him how much it hurts.

At the top of the stairs and they’ve never looked so treacherous – the noisy stairs that played their part in foiling my escape. I don’t think I can do it. There’s too many stairs.

“Can you carry me?”

He doesn’t need asking twice. He simply scoops me up in his arms, his skinny arms. I’m worried that he won’t be able to take my weight and we’ll both plummet to the ground floor and land in a crumpled heap.

Thankfully his arms don’t give in and we do make it to the bottom. He doesn’t put me down; instead he walks us through to the dining room where the table’s set up different to his usual standards.

In the centre of the table is the usual candle. The paper plates are situated at either end of the table – the same place he normally puts them, with the plastic knives and forks placed next to them. On my plate though is an envelope – sealed. He puts me down in my chair and sits opposite me.

“What’s this?” I ask referring to the envelope.

“For you.”

Obviously.

I nervously pick it up. I can’t help but wonder what he has in store for me this time. Is it something else to slow my progress in getting out?

“I’ll go and get our dinner,” he stands and leaves the room as I tear the envelope open and pull out the card. I get the impression that the gesture of the card has even embarrassed him. A single red rose is painted on the front of the small card with a solitary word written underneath in gold embroidered letters: ‘Sorry’. The inside of the card is blank except for a neatly scribbled message:

‘I’m sorry for all the bad things that I have done to you. I’m sorry for not being enough for you and I’m sorry that I can’t let you see your mum and dad. I wish I was enough.’

I don’t know what to make of it. I don’t know what I am supposed to say to him when he does come back into the room. Think of something. Anything.

Too late!

Before I’ve thought of anything, he walks back into the room holding out two bowls of food – some sort of soup.

“Thank you for the card,” I say.

He doesn’t say anything back. He just puts the bowl of soup in front of me and the other bowl in front of his own seat where he sits down.

“Did you hear me?” I ask.

“After dinner, I’ll let you go to your mum and dad.”

What? Don’t register any emotions yet. It could be a trick. Maybe I even misheard him. My brain twisting what he actually said to something that I’d like him to say.

“What?”

“If that’s what you want. I’ll let you go.”

He looks sad.

Would he really just let me go? After everything we’ve been through, he’d just let me walk out the front door? I don’t believe him. It can’t be that easy.

“I won’t try and stop you.”

A trick? Is it a trick to see how I’d react? If I say that I want to leave, he’ll continue using the restraints? If I say I want to stay – I get free reign of the house again?

“I’d like for you to stay but I see that I can’t make you.”

“No. You can’t make me,” I agree.

Careful. Don’t fall into his trap.

“But I want to stay.” What am I doing? You’re proving him you can be trusted and that you do love him.

“What?” My answer was obviously not what he was expecting.

“I told you that I just wanted you to meet my mum and dad. I said that I loved you. I do love you,” play the game. Make him believe.

“You do love me?”

“Yes. I don’t want to go anywhere. If you don’t want to leave the house or let me see my old family then I understand. If never seeing them again is what I have to do to show you how much I love you, or keep you as a partner – that’s what I’ll do.”

“Really?”

“Yes. I’m sorry about earlier. I get it now though. It doesn’t matter. You matter. You matter to me.”

He smiles at me – the first time since hurting me.

Bingo.

I pick the card up and tear it up in front of him. His face temporarily drops before I explain to him, “And I don’t need your apologies. I just need your love.”

The smile creeps back onto his face.

“Your soup’s getting cold,” he says.

Everything is back to normal.

Our First Night Together

“I’m sorry.”

He’s sorry. He’s sorry. He’s not as sorry as I am. I was hoping that I’d be free enough to plot how to get the keys from him, and act upon my ideas tonight but it’s going to be impossible cuffed to the bed.

It’s going to be even more impossible all the time I’m cuffed to the same bed he’s going to be sleeping in.

“Is this necessary?” I ask as he takes his top off, getting ready for bed himself.

“I’d be more comfortable. For now.”

“Is this how it’s going to be?”

He climbs into the bed next to me and kisses me on the cheek before turning onto his back.

“For now.”

How long is ‘for now’?

“How long is for now?” I think and ask.

“Until the next stage of our relationship.”

I wonder what the next stage of our relationship is going to entail considering all I’ve been through already. I wonder if I would have been at the ‘next stage’ if I hadn’t tried to run.

“I just thought we were going to spend our first night together cuddling,” I say hoping that he’ll release me.

“We can.”

He rolls over, to face me, and cuddles in close to me.

Get the fuck off.

I’d love to say that.

“You know I’m not going to run,” I persist.

He knows that I’m not going to run. He had to carry me downstairs and back up the stairs because of my swollen ankle. How am I supposed to run anywhere?

“I’m sorry, but this is how it has to be. For now.” His voice has changed in tone – a tone that suggests now is a good time for me to stop being persistent.

“Okay.” It’s not okay. It’s far from ‘okay’.

He kisses me on the cheek again.

“Night, night.”

I don’t return the kiss, “Good night.”

He rolls over again and flicks a switch, killing the light on the bedside cabinet, before rolling back over and kissing me again – cuddling in to my side and knocking my ankle.

“I love you,” he says, hopefully his final words of the night.

The darkness in the room hides the look of hate that flashes in my eyes. I shut my eyes and wish my mum and dad a ‘good night’. In my mind, they wish me a ‘good night’ too. A genuine smile creeps onto my face.

“I can’t wait for the morning,” his voice shatters the quietness.

The smile fades from my face and the dark room suddenly seems a lot darker than before. I have to get out.

I try and roll onto my side but he pulls me closer, stopping my efforts.

I feel more trapped than before.

Think.

Think.

All Good Things…

For the first time since we’ve been a couple, we’ve woken up in the same bed and it feels great. As I watch her sleep I can’t help but feel as though I’ve finally achieved what I set out to achieve. She looks at peace. She makes me feel at peace.

It would be better without the morning breath but it’s still a good start.

I want to wake her up. I can’t wait for the two of us to start our day together. Let her sleep. Perhaps creep from the room and get her breakfast ready? No. I want her to wake up next to me as I did, next to her. I want her to feel what I felt when I first opened my eyes.

Love.

She’s stirring. Don’t stare. It might freak her out to know that you’ve been watching her sleep. Why would it? Don’t be stupid. She wouldn’t mind. Her left eye opens first, followed by the right eye that’s a little sticky from sleepy dust.

“Morning.” I lean in and kiss her.

She’s wide eyed. She’s awake.

“How did you sleep?” I ask. A polite question, I feel.

“You snore.”

I laugh until I realise she’s being serious.

“I’m sorry,” what else can I say?

She tries to bring her arm down but the cuff stops her.

“Can you get this off, please?” she asks.

She seems grumpy. Perhaps she isn’t a morning person. I climb from the bed and walk to the radiator where my trousers are hanging. Inside the left hand pocket are the keys that I need to free her. They don’t take long to find and I walk back, to unlock her.

“Thank you,” she rubs her wrists as I put the key ring around the chain on my neck.

“Do I get a morning kiss?” I ask. I haven’t had one yet and I crave it.

“Sorry,” she kisses me on the cheek.

A kiss on the cheek, what am I – her mother? I’d jokingly ask but I feel any conversations about mothers could open a can of worms that leads to nothing but more trouble for us. I’ll settle for the cheek. For now.

“Do I have to have the cuffs again tonight?” she asks as she still rubs her wrists.

I don’t know. It depends how the day goes. Lie to her. Improve her mood, “No. It was just for our first night whilst you got used to being in the same bed as me.”

It’ll be for as long as I deem necessary.

“I didn’t sleep well. It was uncomfortable.”

“I’m sorry.”

I kiss her on the cheek, “What would you like for breakfast?”

She turns away from me and stretches her arm, “Just some toast, please.”

I can’t help but feel a little disappointed this morning. I was hoping for a little romance; our first proper morning together – I feel it should be celebrated.

Don’t force her. Let her come to you.

“Toast it is.” I kiss her again and leave the room wearing nothing but my underwear.

I don’t feel the cold air as I walk across the landing and down the stairs, towards the kitchen with a skip in my step. I feel a different kind of warmth flowing through my veins – warmth that I’m not used to feeling in my skinny body.

Just as I don’t feel the cold air against me, I also don’t realise that I’m whistling a tune to myself; a tune that I don’t recognise or particularly like – an annoyingly catchy, happy tune that I can’t shake from my thoughts.

“Toast?” I say out loud to myself.

I pull the bread from the second row of plastic containers, on the right hand side, and drop it into the toaster that’s on the floor due to lack of space on the sideboard. I can’t believe she only wants toast. I wanted our first breakfast together to be special and I struggle to think of a way to make ‘toast’ appear special, or desirable.

I should have locked her in the bedroom. I need the butter and that’s in the fridge. The fridge is in the garage. It’s okay. She won’t come downstairs. Her ankle is still swollen. If she does try and come downstairs, I’ll hear her anyway. Just be quick.

I should have locked the bedroom.

Before I go to the garage, I listen carefully for her. I hear nothing. She isn’t trying to get out of the bed. I have time. Taking the chain from around my neck, I open the garage door and am instantly hit by the smell.

I need more air freshener.

Perhaps I didn’t think everything through properly.

The air freshener is stored to the left of the garage door, immediately as you walk in. I kept it there, in easy reach, for times such as this. Taking a can of the lemon scent, I spray my way past the bodies, past the red Mercedes, and to the first fridge, of many, where I find the butter. I spray my way back to the kitchen, giving Young Susie a little wave as I pass what’s left.

The door is shut and locked. Keep spraying. Just a little while longer. Be sure that the smell is gone. A few more minutes on the nozzle empties the can and kills the room with the lemon scent – even masking the smell of the burning toast.

Damn it.

It’s only slightly blackened. With some frantic scraping, with the plastic knife, and more butter than you’d normally put on a slice of toast – I’m sure it’ll be fine. I can’t afford to waste any food. We are already halfway down the first stack.

Maybe, in the future, I should make smaller portions.

A mental note to myself – make smaller portions. She rarely eats it all anyway.

I grab a hold of the toast and put it on a plate before returning upstairs, singing the same irritating song as before. Where do I know it?

“Morning!” she shouts at me as soon as I set foot into the bedroom, “I’m sorry about earlier, if I seemed a little grumpy. I’m not a morning person.”

She’s beaming now.

“I guessed that,” I smile at her, pleased for her sudden change in mood. I was worried that she was going to put a dampener on our day. Again.

“Did you get my toast?”

I hand her the toast and she pulls me down to her level before kissing me full on the lips – a slight shock, but enjoyable.

“Thank you.” She starts to tuck in with an appetite that suggests she hasn’t eaten for months, “I’m glad you burnt it slightly, I like it like that.”

Good coincidence.

I climb into bed next to her and join her under the thick duvet, careful not to accidentally knock her ankle.

“Aren’t you having any breakfast?” she asks as she takes another bite of toast.

“I don’t eat breakfast. I don’t enjoy it that much. It feels as though my body hasn’t woken up properly and struggles to digest it.”

“But how will you keep your strength up?”

“For what?” I ask – ever hopeful.

“For this.”

She drops the plastic plate to the floor and pushes me onto my back, climbing on top of me.

“What are you doing?” I ask half-heartedly. I think I know what’s coming and I don’t want to put her off.

“Ssh,” she whispers into my ear, “it’s my turn now.”

She kisses me hard on the mouth.

I wonder - do I bring up anything about a condom?

…Come To An End

Her kisses feel nice against my skin.

My neck.

My shoulders.

My chest.

Wet. Warm.

A playful little nibble on my nipple causing it to harden.

Think of someone else.

Kiss him all over – past the keys on the chain around his neck.

Get him excited. Make him hard.

It’ll be easier if it’s hard.

This is the only way.

I shut my eyes as she kisses my stomach.

Her kisses feel full of passion.

Tenderness.

Love.

I wish I had a drink by the bed.

Something to wash the taste from my mouth.

I look up to his face - his eyes are closed tight.

That makes it easier.

I close mine.

She’s taking more time around my stomach.

Kissing it all over.

Running her tongue around my belly button.

Teasing me.

Putting it off.

Delaying it.

Don’t delay it.

It’s the only way. Get it over with.

Glance down. He’s hard.

This is it.

She’s moving lower.

I feel hot air over my penis.

Teasing me.

I pause.

I’m not sure if I can do this.

I look up at him again.

What are we waiting for?

I open my eyes and look at her.

She’s looking at me.

“Do it, please.” I beg.

If you insist.

She slides her mouth over my penis.

Her wet mouth –warm, snug.

She slides down the shaft to the base.

Her hands cup my balls firmly.

I get a good grip – extra support.

I look back to his face - his eyes are shut again.

This is it.

Clamp.

I love the flick of her tongue.

I love the feel of her saliva as it trickles down me.

I love the feel of her…

Teeth?

………………………

………………………

My mouth fills with his blood as I chew down hard.

A twist of my head and his shaft tears off in my mouth.

Chewy.

I choke on his blood and gag as I come to terms with what I’ve done.

Spit it out.

Don’t think about it – it had to be done.

The Keys To Nowhere

The house fills with his screams as he pushes me off – onto the floor where I land with a bump. I let out a whimper as I bang my ankle, dropping his now-limp member to the floor. It takes all my effort not to throw up – the taste of his blood still strong in my mouth and trickling down my chin. His screams continue.

I stand up and look at him as he writhes around on the bed, holding where his penis used to be. His eyes shut tight – the pain stopping him from opening them.

I try and walk towards the bed but fall as I forget about my ankle and put pressure on it. Landing next to him, he takes the opportunity to grab me.

His eyes open.

I see his pain.

I see his hate.

He tries to say something but I don’t want to hear it. He can’t speak anyway; the pain is too much for him and he lets go of me before holding onto where his penis used to be. The blood is gushing out thick and fast – spraying the entire length of the bed.

Part of me feels sorry for him.

Most of me feels no sorrow for him. He did this to himself.

I grab the keys from around his neck and pull on them so hard that the chain snaps, “Fuck you!” I spit in his face just as he spat on mine, repeatedly when I was unable to move – when I was unable to do anything about it. How the table has turned.

I scream another “Fuck you” for good measure.

This is it – I’m free.

I’m going home.

Holding the keys in my hand, I fight through the pain from my ankle and hobble to the bedroom door, using the wall as extra support. The staircase, from the landing, that was so uninviting earlier, look like a Godsend in the dim light.

I can do this.

Nothing can stop me.

The banister is my support now and I get to the stairs in a good time, hopping along and keeping my weight off my bad ankle that’s raised off the floor. The staircase is going to be the challenge.

Pause.

Rest a minute. You have the time.

I look back to the main bedroom. His screams have stopped now. I can’t hear him at all – not even writhing around on the bed. Good. He’s probably passed out from lack of blood or shock. Maybe even both.

Fuck him.

Forget about him. Concentrate. The stairs.

I slide the keys down the back of my underwear. Had I thought about it, in the bedroom, I would have stopped long enough to throw some trousers on, or a dress at least. An outfit wasn’t high on my list of priorities though – I just want to get out of here. Worry about clothes later. Hopefully, whomever I stumble across first will lend me their coat or shirt.

The keys are cold against my skin. At least I won’t forget they are there. Concentrate. The stairs.

I rest my left hand against the wall and grip the wooden railing with my right hand. Go careful. Another short pause before I, once again, lift my foot off the floor so as not to put unnecessary strain on my ankle. This is it. Just ‘hop’ down the stairs – one at a time.

Go.

Surprisingly I manage to get down the stairs fairly easily. The wall and railing offering me all the support I need to keep my ankle from causing me any more pain. My heart beats faster due to both the level of energy this is taking and the thought of getting outside. Just a few more steps to go and I will be down. Careful. Don’t rush. There’s no need. You’ll only do something stupid.

The last stair is the hardest as I run out of railing and have to rely on the wall for all of my support. I land awkwardly and slam my foot down – a scream escapes my throat as the pain shoots up through my body. Forget about it. You have time to hurt later.

Still using the wall for support I drag myself up and ‘hop’ over to the front door. I pull the keys from where I put them, scratching my skin in the process, and frantically search through the numerous designs. There are so many different styles – all different shapes and sizes – I have no idea which one is the one that I need.

Stop panicking.

The key will be there.

Just try them all.

One by one I systematically go about trying each of the keys in the lock until finally I hear the ‘click’ that I’ve longed for since finding myself a prisoner in this house.

This is it. I’m going home.

I can’t help but let out a joyous shriek as I pull the door open wide.

Fuck.

Bricks.

Beyond the door is a wall of bricks – like the wall of bricks that have blocked some of the windows I’ve encountered. I want to cry. Don’t cry. There must be a way out. Try the other locked rooms. One of them must lead to freedom.

I’m so close now that I forget about my ankle and catch it repeatedly as I take the keys and hobble through to the kitchen. I ignore the pain just as I ignore his system for storing food and throw myself through the containers in an effort to get to the door quicker than following the path he’s left.

I land in a messy heap, laughing to myself. It was loud, and painful, but destroying what he spent so much time setting up was satisfying. I pick the keys up and pull myself to my feet before falling against the door that I’m supposedly forbidden to go through. Fuck him. He can’t stop me now.

The same process that I employed before helps me to discover the needed key and get the satisfying ‘click’.

Please. No bricks.

I’m in luck. It’s the garage.

Jesus, what’s that fucking smell?

The Garage

Don’t think about the smell. Just find the light switch. Breathe through your mouth not your nose. Ignore the air. You can get all the clean air you need when you get outside. Just get outside.

I lean into the garage and scrabble against the wall, just inside of the doorway, hoping to find a light switch. Peering into the darkness I see the outline of a car. Until this very moment I’ve never been excited about cars. This car, however, makes my heart beat fast and adrenalin surge through my body. This is it. There’s no stopping me now.

Another stroke of luck: my hand stumbles across the needed switch.

‘On’.

The lights flicker on and off for a second, teasing me with the horrors they are about to reveal. I’ve changed my mind. I don’t want the lights on. Shut your eyes. Pretend you didn’t see anything. Pretend you didn’t see the bodies. He didn’t let them go. He lied. He didn’t let anyone go. Keep your eyes shut. Don’t look. Don’t put yourself through it. The glimpse was enough. Just feel your way to the car and get in. Keep your eyes shut. Get in the car and just drive. Go straight through the door. Don’t look. Don’t look back.

I stumble into the garage and clumsily stagger down the stairs trying to ignore the intense pain each step causes because of my ankle. I think I’m off the final step and yet I know I’m not standing on the floor.

Don’t look.

I’ve been through enough. I don’t need to see what he put others through as well. It will be hard enough to move on with my life as it is. Just take another step.

Now I know I’m standing on the floor. I shuffle my feet forward a little more. There’s something else in front of me. I lift my good foot up and use it to ‘feel’ how high the ‘something’ is. Whatever it is – it’s the same size as what I just got off.

I step up.

Slowly.

Carefully.

It’s soft under foot. Fleshy. Don’t think about it.

I bring my other foot up, carefully, so I’m standing on the ‘something’ completely. Shuffle your good foot forward. Whatever it is – it’s not big and it drops off again. My good foot finds the floor again. Good. I step off completely.

Where’s the car? Am I close yet? Just sneak a peak. A quick flash can’t hurt. Can it? Just don’t pay attention to what you see. Just get an idea on where the car is.

I open my eyes, for what’s supposed to be a quick ‘second’, and stop dead. I don’t want them open and yet I can’t bring myself to close them.

A red Mercedes – like the one my mum and dad drive.

I can’t take my eyes off it. Even the knowledge that rotting corpses surround me doesn’t distract me from the car – the red Mercedes.

It’s exactly the same colour on the exterior and interior.

The number plate: the same.

The scratch in the bonnet: the same.

It can’t be.

Shut your eyes. Close them. Ignore it. Pretend you haven’t seen it. Just get in and drive. Drive far from here. Just keep driving.

No.

You need to know.

It can’t be the same car. He doesn’t know mum and dad.

A few more tense seconds pass until it dawns on me that the boot is wide open. Why would the boot be open? Never mind that – why would the fucking car be here in the first place. Take a look. What’s in the boot?

I step over the bodies, without giving them a second thought, not feeling the pain that should be coming from my ankle. I can’t swallow.

I’m scared.

There are two bodies in the boot. I can see their feet.

It’s okay. It won’t be mum and dad. He doesn’t know them. They don’t know him. They wouldn’t be in his house. They certainly wouldn’t be in his garage.

I peer in to see the faces; blue skinned, rotting. I’m struggling to fight back the tears. My heart stops.

“Mummy? Daddy?”

I can’t fight back the tears and they flow freely from my eyes as I wail like a lost little girl. First of all he took my freedom and then he took my parents. The ‘man’ that said he loved me.

I drop to the floor – a hand on each parent, refusing to let them go. I won’t let go of them. I climb into the car with them and cuddle in close. I can’t believe this – what he’s done to me.

I’m so very tired.

“I love you,” I say – truthfully for the first time since being in this god-forsaken house, “I love you so much.”

In turn, I kiss them both – noticing cracks in their heads. Along with the crack in the head, my mum also has some deep cuts in her leg. Why?

“What’s he done?”

I shut my eyes. Tighter. Tighter still. Leave this place. Go somewhere else. Somewhere when everything was okay. Somewhere with my mum and dad.

No.

Open your eyes.

Don’t give up. You’re so close. Grieve later. Just get out of the house.

I roll over and clamber through to the front seat.

This is it and the keys in the ignition.

Freedom.

I turn the key.

Nothing.

Fuck.

I turn it again and, again, nothing.

I twist another turn of the key and another sting of disappointment hits home.

Fuck

One more turn.

Nothing.

It’s dead.

Everything is fucking dead.

“Please start!” I beg.

Nothing.

I sit back, deflated. It doesn’t matter. Forget about the car. Just get out. Run! Ignore the ankle. You don’t need the car. Don’t give up now. Just open the garage door and run…

Bricks.

I was so transfixed by the car and my parents that I failed to notice that the entrance to the garage had been completely filled in, with more bricks. Everything’s been sealed up. Everything. There’s no escape.

Fuck him. There has to be a way out. He won’t beat you.

Don’t give up.

I climb from the car and climb my way to the bricked entrance. The bricked ‘exit’ to be more precise. Maybe they aren’t secure. I start kicking them, with my good foot and they don’t budge. Kick them harder. Nothing. There’s no movement.

More force.

More disappointment. Find something in the room. There must be something in here that I can use to break out. Something. Anything.

I frantically stagger around the room, tripping over strangers who all stare dead-eyed and hunt on the shelves and in the many fridges. There’s nothing. No heavy instruments. Nothing sharp.

He’s thought of everything.

I only find slithers of meat and tubs of butter along with other refrigerated perishables – nothing that I can use. There’s nothing in here.

There’s nothing in here.

They might be something in the main house. Get out of the garage but keep looking. Don’t give up. You’ve come so far – achieved so much.

I won’t let him win and lock the door behind me, as I leave the garage.

I won’t go in there again.

Ever.

Desperation

I’m exhausted. I feel sick – either caused by hunger or the feeling that I’m stuck here. I’ve looked all through the downstairs of the house; I can’t find anything that I can use to break the bricks down and my ankle is killing me.

There’s just upstairs left and the next room on the list.

His room.

As I stand at the doorway of the main bedroom, I struggle to cross the threshold. I’m being silly. I know he can’t hurt me now – he’s lying on the bed, motionless. I can’t tell if he’s dead or unconscious.

Just go in there. Keep looking. He isn’t going to hurt you. He can’t.

What if he’s pretending? What if I enter the room and he suddenly springs to life like a typical ‘bad guy’ from a poorly written Hollywood movie; the sort of bad guy that comes at you, from the shadows, despite previously being set on fire and shot in the head.

Don’t be stupid.

He isn’t coming for you. Just look at the duvet. The mattress soaked heavily in a pool of deep red blood. He isn’t coming for you. I put my first foot over the doorway. He doesn’t move.

His non-movement is a good sign that encourages my second foot to cross over the threshold. I don’t take my eyes off him though.

Check to see if he’s breathing. At least if I check, I’ll know for sure.

“Peter?”

Stupid girl. He isn’t moving. He isn’t going to answer you.

“Peter?”

I take a few ‘limps’ closer to him and hold out a hand that shakes uncontrollably. Why am I so scared? He’s motionless.

“Peter?”

I’m close enough to touch him now but I don’t. I don’t dare. Instead I pull at as much of the cover as I can get to and throw it over his body. Out of sight, out of mind.

I take step away from him; something soft is under foot. I already know what it is. Don’t look at it. Don’t remind yourself. Just kick it under the bed. Out of sight, out of mind. Done.

Out of sight, out of mind is a lot easier said than done and I struggle to stop casting a nervous glance in his direction as I look around the room – a look around the room that turns out to be fruitless with no heavy objects that I can use and, if there were heavy objects, they were bolted to the floor.

Fuck.

I turn and leave the room – I leave him. He hasn’t moved. As I give his body a final glance, before closing the door on him, I can’t help but feel sorry for him, in a weird sort of way that’s hard to explain.

He killed my parents. Why do I feel sorry for him?

Fuck him.

I close the door and move towards the next room.

I ignore the bathroom. I’ve been in there enough times to know that there’s nothing in there that I can use; nothing that would smash through bricks. The same for the spare bedroom – I know what’s in there and I know there’s nothing in there either.

There’s only one room left and it’s hidden by another locked door. I take the keys from the back of my underwear and, once again, set about trying them in the lock, one at a time, until I stumble across the one that’s needed: a large, silver key.

‘Click’.

The door swings open, into a room, which contains a handful of monitors that show the other rooms of the house. Next to the last monitor on the right is a computer terminal. Thank fuck. Send an email to someone. Anyone. I rush over to the seat, in front of the computer screen, as fast as I can and flick the on switch to the screen that wastes no time in asking me for a password.

A password?

He has thought of everything.

Think. What would he have?

Love?

Eternity?

Together?

One, Two, Three, Four?

None of them work.

Peter? Vanessa? Peter and Vanessa? Vanessa and Peter?

Rejected. All of them, rejected.

Fuck.

I should have spoken to him more. I should have tried to get into his head. I might have stood more of a chance in finding the right combination of letters, the right word to unlock the freedom that the real keys have failed to get for me.

What else did he say to me? He just wanted it to be…

Just the two of us?

The phrase doesn’t unlock the access to his computer. He also spoke about his…

Mother?

Again, the password is denied.

He said that his mother was a…

Whore?

Nothing, again the password is spat back at me. Rejected. I hit the keyboard out of frustration and my ‘hit’ accidentally inputs a random series of letters. I doubt it’ll work but I press ‘return’ anyway.

Access denied. No surprise there.

I sit back, beaten again. No emails are getting sent today.

Fuck.

Wait. Perhaps the computer can unlock my freedom. I check the base unit and it’s not bolted down to the floor. The monitors, both for the CCTV and the computer itself, aren’t bolted either. He obviously thought there’d be no need to bolt it down as they were in a room that I wasn’t supposed to get into. If I throw them hard enough, at the bricks, perhaps the bricks would loosen a little? Even if they loosen a little, it might be enough to help me break through with some well-placed kicks.

Anything is worth a try but I’m reluctant to use anything to do with the computer – if all else fails, I could always spend my time guessing his password. Failing that, maybe he’ll wake up and tell me? In his current state, I’m sure he’ll want me to get help for him.

I look at the monitor to the main bedroom. He hasn’t moved. He isn’t going to move ever again. Part of me is relieved. Part of me feels even more isolated than before. At least he offered a bit of company.

A tear trickles from my eye. I wipe it away.

Don’t be stupid. He killed mum and dad.

I pull the plug from the CCTV monitors, killing them instantly.

Now I just need to get them down the stairs.

* * * * *

I would have looked stupid to anyone watching me get down the stairs with each monitor, one at a time. I sat at the top, with my arm around the screen, my other hand steadying myself on the wall and carefully ‘bumped’ my way down the stairs, one step at a time.

I wished someone were there to see how stupid I looked. At least they would have been able to take me away from this place, when they had finished laughing of course.

It didn’t matter though, what did matter was that I managed to get the screens downstairs unbroken – unbroken and relatively strong. I stand at the blocked wall of the front door with the monitors lined up next to me. I’m hoping that they’ll be able to do enough damage. Even if they don’t break the wall down, maybe a passer-by will hear the crashing and come to investigate?

Where is this house? I wonder whether there are even people to pass by ‘out there’? Forget about it. Concentrate on the task at hand.

I take hold of the first monitor and struggle to lift it above my head. I’m wobbly on my feet but at least I managed to get it over my head. Arch my back. Bring the monitor back as far as I can without dropping it. Hold it. Take aim…

Throw!

I throw the monitor as hard as I can and it crashes against the wall before dropping to the floor in several pieces.

Wall = one.

Monitor = zero.

Fuck.

It’s not over yet. There’s seven monitors left yet. I pick the next monitor up and follow through with the same process, believing that the faster I accomplish it – the more damage is done to the wall. The second monitor falls to the floor and joins the rubble of the first.

Don’t get deflated. Keep it going.

The third monitor joins the first and second with its pieces scattered across the floor. With the way the monitors are smashing so easily, I’m glad I didn’t roll them down the stairs as I had originally planned to.

I check the wall. He’s done a good job or cementing the bricks in place as there is hardly a mark. Maybe the next monitor will have more luck?

‘CRASH!’

Evidently not!

The broken pieces are getting in my way and putting me off so I kick them out of the way before picking up the next screen. The same process; above my head, tilt back and full force into the wall. I must have done it harder than before as the collision is a lot more violent than the others and some of the glass comes back into my face, cutting my cheek. It’s a cut that stings like a paper cut.

Ignore it.

There still isn’t a mark on the bricks and the last monitors don’t make any impact either. I drop to my knees. There’s nothing else I can use. I’m tired both physically and mentally. I can’t even cry.

I try using the last of my strength to hit the walls down with my bare hands. Each open-palmed hit stinging sharply. Please fall down. Please.

The bricks don’t budge.

I realise I’m going nowhere fast and scream at the top of my lungs – a scream that echoes around the lifeless house, a scream that no-one hears.

You’re tired. Try again in the morning. One more night won’t hurt.

A Restless Night

I can’t sleep.

The bed in the spare bedroom is too uncomfortable. I should have dragged him from the main bedroom and slept there but I couldn’t bring myself to go in there and see him. What if he had moved?

He hasn’t moved. He’s dead. You killed him.

I wish I paid attention to how he used the syringe; I could have dosed myself up tonight. I could have made myself sleep so I could be fresh in the morning – full of energy; energy that I’m obviously going to need if I’m to break through the bricks.

Stupid idea.

Even if I did pay attention – I’d never know what dose to use. I’m not ready to give in yet and I certainly don’t want to kill myself even though I sometimes think that would be easier. An early death would let me be free. An early death would let me be with my mum and dad again.

Stop it.

Stop thinking like that.

You’re going to get out of here. They wouldn’t want you thinking like that – and you know it. You’re just tired. Get some sleep. I can’t.

As I lay awake frantically trying to think of a way out of the house I remember the cutlery. It’s only plastic but I could use it to scrape the concrete away from between the bricks – a long task but a task that could reward me with freedom.

Why wait until the morning?

Try it now.

It might be a lot easier than you think. You won’t know until you try it.

I wait a couple more sleepless minutes before coming to terms with the fact that I won’t get any sleep tonight. I may as well get up and carry on trying to break free.

I sit up and swing my legs off the bed, putting my feet onto the floor. My joints scream at me to stop and rest up but I’m not going to. I have to try the plastic cutlery. I stand up and limp out of the door and down the stairs, heading for the kitchen.

The cutlery is stored in a large, aluminium bin in the corner of the kitchen. Plastic knives and plastic forks, stored as a pair in a clear wrapping. I’d take the bin, to save going backwards and forwards, to get more cutlery when the ones that I use give in to the strength of the bricks and snap, but it’s bolted to the floor – the same as everything else. I take an armful, holding them close to my chest as I limp back out of the kitchen towards the front door, only dropping a few. Let them drop. I can come back for them if I need them.

I drop the rest by the brick wall and drop to my knees, once again. I can scrape at the concrete at this level. I don’t need to stand. After all, if I can get some bricks out, it will be easier to crawl out if the gap is on the floor.

I don’t know where to start. Do I start two rows from the bottom? Perhaps three rows would be better? Wait. Think. You’ll need to take enough bricks out to be able to crawl through the hole afterwards.

I lie down next to the bricks and measure my chest up against them. Four rows should be enough. I could put my arms out first and then allow the rest of my body to follow. Four rows will be fine.

Don’t get ahead of yourself. Try the cutlery first.

I tear a packet open and pull out the knife. Pressing the knife against the bricks with any amount of force, no matter how slight, sees the knife bend slightly. I scrape the knife across the cement. It gouges out a tiny amount, a small amount of dust and debris. Crumbs.

It’s working.

It’s going to take ages but it’s working. Keep going.

More scraping. More dust.

I can’t help but laugh.

More scraping. More dust. More laughter.

I press harder and the knife snaps.

Fuck.

Don’t panic. There’s plenty more. I take another packet and tear it open, the cutlery drops into my lap. Ignore the fork. Grab the knife. Get back to it. Scrape like your life depends on it.

Your life does depend on it.

More scraping.

“Where are you going?” he asks making me jump and snap another knife.

Ignore him. He isn’t there. He’s upstairs. You killed him.

I killed him.

“You said that you loved me.”

I lied that I loved him. I never loved him.

“You said that you wanted me to meet your parents.”

He did meet my parents. He killed my parents. Ignore him. He’s not real. He’s just a figment of my imagination. I pick up another cutlery set and pull the knife from within the wrapping.

“I miss you. Come upstairs.”

In a weird sort of way, I miss him too. In his own weird way, he wanted what was best for me. He wanted to love me. He just didn’t go about it in the more conventional way of ‘dating’ and ‘getting to know me’. His heart was in the right place though.

What are you doing?

This is the man that kidnapped you. He killed your mum and dad. Get him out of your head. Concentrate on the bricks. I frantically start scraping again. Get out of the house. Forget about him. Move on with your life.

More dust sprinkles to the floor as I scrape harder than before, careful not to snap the knife. Another knife.

“Please stop trying to get away from me,” I hear him approach me cautiously from behind. His hand falls on my shoulder as a form of comfort. No it doesn’t. His hand is not there. He is not there. He is upstairs where you left him.

I laugh at how stupid I’m being.

“Admit it; you were getting feelings for me.”

I wasn’t getting feelings for him. There’s no way that I’d get feelings for him – my kidnapper. The murderer.

“They might not have been as strong as my feelings for you but they were there. On some level.”

I turn to the thin air behind me, swipe at it with the knife and scream, “Fuck off!”

Don’t let him get to you. Don’t forget the wall.

More scraping.

I stop, temporarily, and start kicking the wall with my good foot, hoping that I’ve loosened the brick enough to make it drop to the outside world that it hides from me. It doesn’t move. Some more crumbs fall to the floor and that’s about it.

Fuck.

“Please. Stop,” he begs me.

I stop long enough to spin around and lash out with the plastic knife. There’s nothing there. He’s not there. Why do I keep thinking that he is? I know where he is. He’s where I left him.

Stop it.

I turn around again and, again, scrape the cement away. I look to the floor and see that I’m making a nice mess of cement crumbs and dust, but that’s it. I blow hard on the area that I’ve been scraping and look at my handiwork.

My lack of handiwork…

I don’t think this is working.

“You’re being silly,” he doesn’t say to me, “come upstairs and lay with me – everything will feel better in the morning.”

Perhaps he’s right. Maybe everything will be better in the morning. I drop the knife to the floor and sit back. I’m so very tired. My arm is especially tired.

I regret killing him. I’m so tired he could have given me a massage.

Give up Vanessa; you aren’t going anywhere tonight.

“Come upstairs, you look tired. If you still want to leave in the morning, I promise I won’t try and stop you.”

“Okay. I am tired.”

I stand up and limp up the stairs to the main bedroom. I open the door and smile at him. He smiles back and pats the bed next to him, inviting me to rest with him.

“I missed you,” he says.

“I’m sorry,” I say as I limp into the room with my thoughts fuzzy and my head heavy. I climb onto the bed with Peter and cuddle into him, resting my head on his lap – letting him stroke my hair.

“You’ll feel better in the morning,” he comforts me.

“I hope so.”

Tomorrow will be another day. We’ll wake up together; I’ll make us some breakfast and then carry on scraping at the bricks with the cutlery. I doubt he’ll help me but at least he’ll talk to me as I work. At least he’ll keep me company and who knows – maybe, one day, I’ll manage to ease enough bricks from the wall to climb out. Failing that, part of me hopes that maybe some squatters will stumble across the house and break in – looking for a new home.

Someone, one day, has to find us.

“Good night, Peter.”

“Good night, Vanessa.”

I close my eyes.