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“I’m not scared. I did all that, didn’t I?” I said, waving at Branson.
She glanced over and saw all the damage that had been done to his body. She nodded. “Yeah, I suppose. So why is cutting a few letters into him the thing that gives you fucking pause? I mean, Jesus, you cut his nipples off, for god’s sake. Also looks like he’s well on his way to pissing sitting down. Just get this done so we can eat lunch on time. I’m fucking hungry already.”
She stepped forward and grabbed my hand. Placing the box cutter in my palm and then forcing my fingers closed around it. The metal handle was cool and smooth against my hand.
“Don’t you all ever wonder who Sam is? How he knows so much?” I asked.
Elise raised an eyebrow, the anger in her expression shifting to mockery. “Yeah. For about a day before we all realize it doesn’t fucking matter.”
“It doesn’t matter?” I said incredulously.
“Right,” Elise said. “If I knew his name, his birth date, and his goddamned pants size, how the fuck does that help me? I’m still stuck here. I’m still trying to stay one step away from death. Who gives a fuck who he is. Now, are you gonna cut this motherfucker, or do I have to drag your ass over there?”
I sighed and turned away from her. She was partially right. Even if we knew who he was, it wouldn’t change our predicament. The only thing that would change was that we could cuss him by name.
As I got over to Branson, I could smell the brown puddle on the floor where he’d shit himself and it’d run down his legs. I wondered if he was able to piss through his dick or if the rubber band would force his bladder to explode. It didn’t matter to me. He deserved it. He deserved all of it.
My hand lashed out, and I yanked the hood off his face. His face was ashen and covered in a thin veneer of sweat. His eyes were glazed and unfocused. I could see how broken he was. Almost as broken as he’d made me as a child. Almost.
“Please,” Branson mumbled. “Please… no more. I’m sorry.”
Those two words lit a fire in my mind. All thoughts of who Sam could be vanished. Any concern I’d had over how he knew about my scars disappeared.
I stooped until my eyes were level with his. “You’re sorry? Were you sorry when you were raping a nine-year-old girl? Were you sorry when you used a knife to cut your fucking initials into her skin? Your sorry doesn’t mean shit to me.” I glanced down at his lap. “How’s your cock feeling by the way? Doesn’t look like you’ll be raping anyone ever again.”
His face crumpled, and he hung his head. “I can’t feel it no more. It’s… Jesus Christ… it’s starting to turn black.” He dry heaved for several moments.
“It stinks in here,” Elise said from behind me. “Let’s go. Get it over with and we can get out of here. I think I smelled tomato sauce in the halls on the way here. Bri must be making Italian for lunch.”
I gritted my teeth, and for a half instant thought about spinning and slicing the razor blade across her throat. It would be so easy. Inhaling, gagging at the outhouse smell this close to him, I controlled the impulse. So she was a bitch. Branson was much worse. He deserved this, every bit.
Instead, I leaned in and placed the tip of the box cutter on Branson’s chest. The blade was so sharp a pinprick of blood appeared and slid down his chest. He gasped and shook his head, sobs hiccupping out of his throat.
My hand sat, unmoving, as I watched the drop of blood slide down his damaged skin. When it finally came to a stop as it slipped into his belly button, I pressed the blade in, watching with fascination as the paper-thin metal opened his skin. The flesh separated as I slid it down, parting like a lipless mouth. Branson gasped and wept in pain.
Blood slid down his torso, dripping onto the floor, adding a coppery tang to the harsh smell of shit. As I finished carving the first letter into his chest, his groans had escalated to hoarse yells. Though most of his strength from the first day had waned. His calls were no longer blood-curdling howls. Now they were desperate barks. Inarticulate and full of horror rather than anger and rage.
By the time I was done, his chest looked like bloody hamburger meat, but my name was easily legible. Dahlia. Let that bastard see that in the mirror every day for the rest of his life. He’d always know who took his cock and balls, he’d remember the life he’d helped ruin, and he’d have nightmares about my face. Good. I’d had enough nightmares of his. It was time to turn the tables.
“Cutting edge therapy.” I tossed the box cutter on the table. “Could’ve used this outside.”
Elise sneered at me as we walked out the door. “Dad jokes suck.”
Back in my room, I washed the blood off my hands, taking extra time to get it out from under my nails. I took a shower and changed to clean clothes too once I saw the blood spatters on my own outfit. I hurried as I didn’t want to be late for lunch. When I came out, fully dressed, my door was still latched. It stayed that way for another hour. My stomach was rumbling when Sam finally spoke to tell me what was happening.
Bong. “Good afternoon, Dahlia. I was quite displeased with your refusal to participate in the activity today. As for your punishment, I’ll be lenient since you’ve done so well to this point. You will miss lunch and dinner today. You will be confined to your quarters until further notice. Enjoy your rest.”
Without another word, the speakers shut off and left me in silence. At the moment, it didn’t seem like that bad of a punishment, but soon my growling stomach would turn to hunger cramps. I’d been used to going with little or no food to save money out in the real world. Here? Three days of good hearty food was enough to get my body used to constant fuel. How long would I be in here? He’d said I was going to miss lunch and dinner. Did that mean I would get out for breakfast tomorrow?
In the silence of the room, I drifted back to the thoughts I’d had before Elise had walked into the playroom earlier. About how much Sam knew about me. Things I’d only told a handful of people. Could one of those people be my captor? That was crazy, wasn’t it? First of all, I didn’t recognize Sam. He didn’t sound like anyone I remembered or could remember. Could it be one of the cops or doctors who were there when I’d been removed from my home? They’d all been so caring and upset about what had happened to me. I couldn’t picture any of them doing something as awful as this to me.
That led to a daydream about Drake. We’d somehow get away together, find Sam, and kick his ass. Then we’d fuck like bunnies. That killed time, but missing seeing him made the isolation worse, another punishment on top of the hunger.
The day drifted by in a haze. When the lights finally dimmed for bed, I went to sleep immediately. I was happy to have a few hours unconscious to take my mind off of everything. When the alarm went off to wake me up, my eyes snapped open and three sealed water bottles were sitting on my nightstand.
Sitting up so fast I got dizzy, I glanced around the room. There was no one around, but those bottles had not been there the day before. The panic faded quickly as the first rumbles started in my gut. I got dressed and chugged one of the bottles to get something on my stomach. The door never opened. I sat there for two hours, hoping and praying that it would. Nothing happened.
I was still being punished for not obeying. The three bottles of water were to be my three meals of the day. That was obvious. So I sat there. For hours. Staring at the four walls and doing nothing. By the afternoon, I would’ve given my left tit for an hour in the library or the music room. Something, anything, to pass the time. What I wanted more than entertainment was food. I couldn’t remember the last time I’d been so hungry. Even before, on days when I didn’t really eat, I could always snatch some french fries off a plate or snack on a half-eaten order of chicken strips a table didn’t finish. True hunger was a different animal altogether.
