She twisted her hands, the ropes tightened, digging in deeper. Lifting her head slightly she peered over the duffle coat stuffed under her head. The room was too dark to see anything. There were dim flickers under the door from the other room. Pulling her legs up, she curled into a ball, her bare legs cold on the wooden floor. Twisting round, she tried to pull the coat over her as much as possible, it stank of cigars and apples but she didn’t care.
If the T.V was on in the other room it must be morning, which meant he would be coming back, to let her use the bathroom. He probably wouldn’t untie her feet, not after what she did last time. She could still feel the blood between her toes crusted and hard. The cuts on her foot hadn’t been that deep, they were just a warning. ‘No more tricks,’ he had said as he pressed the blade against her dirty skin.
She wondered now if she should have shouted louder, the walls were thin, you could tell that by the amount of stuff you could hear going on next door, though if the people next door were anything to go by; the chances of someone caring were slim.
The light from under the door vanished for a second, someone walked past. Quickly she turned over, ignoring the sharp burns on her wrist, clamping her eyes shut; she pressed her head against the floor. Experience had taught her not communicate, or even to look his way. She mapped out what would happen the door would swing open; it never creaked, never made a noise until it slammed against the wall. Usually taking about 4 seconds. He would stand for a moment at the door, staring at her. His dark brown eyes staring at her half naked body. She pulled her legs in closer. Then he would say something, or just make a noise, an announcement of his presence. And he would walk over to her, his steps heavy, dragging his left foot a little. He would pull roughly at the rope, dragging her arms upwards, as he untied it from the massive weight across the room. Then he would tug until she got to her feet, this usually took a while as she wasn’t in the best condition, lack of movement meant simple things like walking was extremely difficult. And there were the cuts.
She would then be lead towards a door, never once looking up. Her hair used to cover her face but it had long since been cut into a crude bob. He preferred shorter hair he had said, his smoke riddled words spoken so flippantly. His face way to close to hers, ‘just enough to pull but not enough to get in the way’, he had said.
He often did that, pulled at her hair, usually when he was angry or drunk, or both. He would slam her into the wall and breathe onto her skin, his nose pressed against the back of her head. Then push her towards the bathroom door. She wasn’t allowed to shut the door; the rope couldn’t allow that anyway, she would close it gently until the rope was nestled between the door and the frame, then shuffle over to the toilet. He never let go of the rope, never untied her hands.
The door slammed against the wall, a little harder than normal, this time the floor shook a little. She waited, there was no sound. He walked over, stopping at her curled up body, his feet knocking against her back. Minutes passed, she started to wonder if he had left, she knew he hadn’t but she wished he would. He bent down suddenly, and blew out a cloud of grey smoke, it poured over her cheeks, stinging her nose. Her eyes twitched open. She glanced upwards, for a second then clamped her eyes shut. Trying to memories what she had seen. A man was crouched next to her, in a dark suit, smoking, his eyes fixed on something in front of him.
A cool draft blew in from the open door, she shivered very slightly. He shifted on his feet, his clothes rustled. She stayed motionless as she felt something against her skin, it was warm and soft. She peered upwards; she was being covered in his jacket. The jacket was lined; the silky smooth fabric was cold.
“Do you know how long it’s been?” His voice was calm and gentle. He reached over her head and stubbed out his cigarette inches from her face, on the wooden floor. The cuff of his shirt pulled up a little as he lent over, he had an expensive watch on.
“When was the last time you spoke?” He breathed out, an almost laugh, as he got to his feet. He walked round to her side, and kneeled in front of her, she turned her face away automatically. He put two fingers gently on her chin and titled her head back towards him. She flinched at his touch but complied, her eyes open now; she fixed him with a quick timid glare, and then looked back down at her legs.
“It’s Sarah isn’t it?” She blinked. He nodded. “Well Sarah I don’t think you can be very comfortable dressed as you are. I’m sure I have some clothes you might like, or perhaps you would prefer to wash first, if so then that can be arranged. There is a decent hotel not to far away.” She didn’t speak.
There was a clicking sound, a glint of light reflected on the wall in front of her. He had a knife, as soon as the cold metal pressed against her skin, she jumped. Twisting violently, trying to pull against the rope. She managed to get to her knees, her back curved as she pulled desperately against her restraints.
He waited for her to stop struggling, and fall back exhausted. Then placed a warm hand onto her shoulder. Holding her still. She tensed, clenching her teeth, trying to block everything out. The knife slid between her hands.
He began to saw at the thick white rope, it rubbed painfully on her wrists as he cut through it. Once loose she jumped up, stumbling unsure of herself or what to do. She leaned back onto her heels taking the pressure off the balls of her feet; she edged backwards, trying not to fall. She eyes darted around the room, frightened, desperate. She blinked at the light from the other room, turning away because of its harsh brightness to her light deprived eyes. Within seconds she slumped against the wall, unsteadily, just stopping herself from falling. Her hands grappled against the wall, her breathing was panicked and irregular, verging on a hyperventilating. Suddenly she remembered the man; she spun towards him, leaning heavily on the wall.
He stood waiting, a fresh cigarette in hand; his jacket draped over his other arm. He watched her quietly, keeping his distance. His eyes focused on her, but not in the disturbing way like the other man, but protective. Taking her eyes off him for a second she quickly glanced over towards the door.
“Shall we go?” His voice was quieter. She pushed herself upright.
“What is happening?” Her voice was gravelly and barely audible.
He walked towards her, his polished shoes tapping against the wood. He slipped his arm through hers and started walking towards the door. She followed, too weak to object, hobbling besides him.
“I suggest that you keep your eyes averted from the west side of the room.” She did as she was told, mainly because holding her head upright was making her feel nauseous but even as they walked through towards the front door she could see that the wall and parts of the floor were covered in blood. The man, the only other person she had, had contact with, was lying dead in his dirty gray chair, a hole in his head. Right between the eyes. Even with him dead she couldn’t bring herself to look at him, she felt sick just being in the same room as him. A cold sweat covered her back, as she tried to control her breathing.
“What are you going to do with me?”
“Get you cleaned up and changed.” His spoke as though he was rattling of shopping list, nothing unusual.
“I’m Sarah, I don’t remember how long I have been here, if screaming doesn’t class as speech, then you are the first person I have spoken too in a long time. I would very much like to wash and change.” She leant a little more on him, she babbled on, stopping between sentences, drawing quick short breaths. “Thank you.” Her voice was at breaking point. Silent tears rolled down her face.
“It’s nice to meet you Sarah.” He took the cigarettes from between his lips and bent his head closer to hers. “I am truly sorry.” His voice was, for the first time tinged with emotion, genuine remorse.
