Copyright © 2006 M. E Ellis
All rights reserved, Wild Child Publishing.
This excerpt contains some strong language and disturbing content. We do not recommend it for those under 18 years of age or for any one who is bothered by violence or profanity.
She lay back with her eyes closed. At one point, she opened them, looked puzzled, then lifted her hand up to her head and felt the stubble, took a shuddering breath, and then let her hand slide back down beneath the bubbles. Her eyes are moist, bottom lip quivers ever so slightly. Probably thinking, 'My hair's gone. My lovely hair.'
While she soaps herself, seemingly unfazed by the fact I'm sitting here with her, I try and think of what to say, what we can talk about.
"I'll make you some food when you're done, if you like."
She wants to say no, I know it. Wants to punish me, get sulky like teenagers do, throw the offer back in my face. But she can't. She's got to be so hungry, probably hurting hungry, like her guts are being squeezed by unseen hands, twisted in fists, wrenched about inside her.
So she says, "Please." She smiles a little, the corners of her mouth lifting up ever so slightly, though she doesn't look at me. Hasn't looked my way since we were in the kitchen. She keeps her eyes forward, staring into space, at images only she can see. Ones I can only imagine.
If I were in her place, I'd be thinking of revenge. I'd gouge out the eyes of my abductor, somehow getting hold of him and whacking him on the head, smack, smack, smack, hitting him so hard his head splits open, revealing his brains and cranium juice. Watching as he hits the floor, his nose cracked, his lip split open. I'd want to hear him cry out in pain as I kicked him so hard in his bollocks he thought they were in his mouth. Yeah, if I were her, that's what I'd be thinking.
I'll have to be careful. She might well be entertaining thoughts just like these, harbouring those feelings about me, waiting until the time was right to jump me, stab me in the face with my kitchen knives and saw off my fingers with them, hacking and slicing at me.
Slicing reminds me of Mags that time with the glass. I'd been at school that day and came home with a bag full of homework. My rucksack seemed so heavy that my shoulder should have been dented. Anyway, I put my bag down on the floor and I was going to hang it up once I'd put my coat on the hook, when Mags flew at me in one of her rages.
'Put that fucking bag away! I'm sick and tired of you leaving your shit out for me to tidy up, for me to put away, for me to sort out. Pick it up, come on, do it, now! Now!'
I didn't have time to get the bag immediately, or, as quick as she wanted it done. I'd bent down, ready to grasp the strap and she took a fistful of my hair, dragged me over to the kitchen sink and slammed my forehead down on the stainless steel edge, once, twice, three times. Three fucking times! The banging dislodged a glass from the drainer, sent it toppling down into the sink where it cracked in half lengthwise; two long crescents rocking to and fro like babies' cradles.
And she lifted up my head by the hair, picked up one of those crescents with her other hand, and sliced across my cheek with it. It didn't hurt, not at first, and not the slice itself. It was the glass hitting the cheekbone as she began the slice that did it. My cheek wasn't slashed open, just deeply scratched, but to me it felt as though it was a gaping wound, that if I put my tongue to the side it would poke out of the hole.
It bled, of course it did. When she saw the blood, she let go of my hair and shoved me backwards with force, as if by getting me away from her meant it wasn't her that had done it, so it wasn't her who had hurt me, wasn't her who had lost her temper. But it was her and we both knew it. If I had been more astute back then I'd have used it to my advantage, but I was more scared of her than she was of me ragging on her to someone.
It went without saying, after she cleaned me up, staunched the flow of blood, that I'd said to those who asked that I'd fallen, scratched my face on a thorny bush, a nail, whatever. Anything other than what really happened. And covered up for her again.
So, as she lays in the bath now, her eyes on the ceiling, looking up with what appears to be intent interest in the swirling aertex patterns, I know I have to be careful because she's probably got a wily mind just like Mags had.
"You'd better be getting out now. Wrap up in this towel. You can come to my room, borrow some of my jogging pants and a T-shirt."
As she rises, water sloshes off of her. She stands, facing me with her head down, arms across her breasts, purple face like a big old blackberry atop her neck. I place the towel around her and she looks like Batman in his cape as she gathers it up under her chin and steps out of the bath onto the fluffy mat.
"This way."
She follows me, actually follows me into my room and sits on the bed when I indicate for her to do so with my eyes. Then stands and dries herself, tentatively between her legs--they look raw. She hides the wince well. Dressed in fleece-lined joggers that are too long, too big on the waist she puts on my top and ties it in a knot at her midriff. Stands with her head down again like some naughty kid being chastised.
She reminds me of what I must have looked like back then, when Mags was having a bad day and shouted down at me, making me feel like shit. A moment's sorrow hits me and I want to gather this girl up into my arms, say I'm sorry and let her go, try and explain what I was doing, that I'd release her if she'd promise not to grass me up and tell on me.
Images crowd in on me like a horde of football fans, all roaring for their team at once, all jeering and hooting. Laughing at me because I've had this girl in my house for three days. Three days, and I don't even know her name.
And I can't believe it. I don't--don't even know her name.