Anna

by Sammy H. K. Smith

  “I’m sorry, Will.” I apologised often, but he ignored me.

  I counted the days that followed: four came and went before I was able to walk without constant pain. I could see clearly out of my bruised eye and had managed to keep Will happy: a magnificent feat.

  Locked back in my cell in the old library, it was the same routine. I would be alone and chained to the wall during the day, but at night he would come to me. Some nights he would do nothing more than hold me, others he demanded my affection in the form of kisses and a massage: but more often than not he would possess my body and control me the way he loved to own me.

  On the twelfth day in my cell, which was day twenty-six since I had started counting again, everything changed.

  I sat on the bed slowly brushing my hair when the door opened and Will entered. He carried the black designer bag.

  “I’ve brought you a few more things.”

  “Thank you,” I replied graciously as he handed me the bag: more toothpaste, more cosmetics, shampoos and creams. I pulled out the small box at the bottom and my blood ran cold. A strange saying that, but so very true. My mouth was suddenly dry and I tasted bile. No, no, no, it had been twenty-six days. It still had time to come. The relief warmed my veins and my pulse steadied again, soothing the sickness. I almost relaxed, until I remembered the two weeks I hadn’t left the cell.

  My hand gripped the box and I stared at the floor. The shuddering started, and then the coldness again. Everything was muted for a moment, everything other than the irregular beat of my heart pounding and roaring like a chorus of bells.

  “Anna?”

  I heard his voice, but it didn’t register in my head. All I could think of was the numbers and days, where had I gone wrong? I must be wrong. I started again, slower this time, but no matter how hard I tried, they didn’t add up. It had been just over forty days since my last period.

  “Anna?” He repeated my name. I heard the echo but couldn’t respond. I was weightless again, floating above the room, away from hell. My ears hurt, the fierceness of the pounding caused them to sting. I dropped the box and pushed past Will to the bucket in the corner where I threw up repeatedly until there was nothing left.

  “Anna, what’s wrong?”

  That hollow concern. I shook my head. There was no way I could tell him. He’d never let me go, and, besides, it might be nothing, it could just be stress. Yes, stress; I’d read about this before: traumatic emotional incidents can affect the cycle. That must be the cause.

  “I feel sick,” I lied. I couldn’t tell him. I stared at my hands on the rim of the bucket. The diamond band mocked me. He pulled me to my feet, feeling my temperature with the back of his hand.

  “What’s wrong?”

  “I just felt unwell, I’ll be fine.”

  Pulling me against him he murmured concern and I squeezed my eyes shut, willing and begging whatever force there was for my period to come. I hadn’t thought of Stephen in days, but his face appeared now. Was this his final act of revenge?

  By the morning of what I counted to be day fifty-two I was still waiting. Each night when he touched me I forced myself to smile at him and bend to his will. I told him my period was here, and so he had me please him in other, equally disgusting ways. I wanted to break down and cry, but I was still so tense that I couldn’t force the tears to come, even though I had tried. It was slowly tearing me in two. I begged and wished and willed my body to prove me wrong: but it didn’t. I was terrified he would realise. He wasn’t stupid, he’d called my bluff before and he could read me. Every time the door lock clicked I jumped and swallowed the sickness plaguing me, thinking he would come in and demand to know why I hadn’t refused his advances in over a month and a half when I had made him wait at the start of my capture.

  As the days passed I sat back and tried to work out the mathematical probability of it happening, but without a pen and paper I started to confuse myself and my stress heightened. I was obsessed with my body. I spent hours scrutinising every inch of my stomach, looking for a change, a sign. I knew there wouldn’t be any, but it didn’t stop me looking: just in case. The thought of a baby filling me left me empty, completely empty.

  He owned me, he would own a baby as well, my baby; he would never let me go. My entire future mapped out and carved in stone, chained to a wall in a cell like this, used by him, forced to play happy families for the rest of my life. It was all suddenly too real, and I threw up again. I hoped he wouldn’t notice and, again, I willed it all to be a horrible mistake.

  That night, when the door was unlocked, the nausea rose again. I stared at the floor until he sat on the bed and stroked my back. It had become his way of telling me he wanted me compliant and willing. I was exhausted: the anxiety made me constantly tired and the demands on my body were too much. I wanted to turn him down, but I was frightened of how he would react, frightened of what might happen if he beat me. I lay there as he squeezed and fondled my body, trying to stop the crawling disgust that swamped me as he kissed and lightly touched my still tender ribs.

  He was too attentive that evening. I had to concentrate on not tensing up my body as his lips moved to my stomach. Against all sense I panicked: did he know? My heart started to skip and I gasped for air. Thankfully he misunderstood and perhaps thought I enjoyed his attentions as he continued with a perverse enthusiasm. I just wanted it to be over so I could wash my body in the bucket of warm water he would undoubtedly bring to me afterwards.

  I knew how to please him, to speed up the torture, but tonight he unnerved me and instead he crawled like an animal to my side and cradled me, his hand between my legs. It irritated me, but I could do nothing. I longed to squirm and bat him away – my skin itched and was clogged with the very essence of him. I didn’t like this attempt at a conscientious lover, but he continued to ply me with kisses and measured strokes. Each touch increased the pressure and tempo. The palm of his hand was moving in time with his fingers, one probing, the other rubbing. My breathing grew faster and I struggled to slow down my heartbeat as shame flooded my cheeks, shame mixed with the unwanted primal, physical desire for more. I moved but he held me tighter and I went limp in his arms. If I didn’t move, if I refused consciously to submit then it would be fine, fine, it had to be fine. I closed my eyes but the feelings intensified. The flutter of physiological pleasure rising and building, and my body unwillingly responded to him: the final punishment, the betrayal of my own body. Unwittingly the muscles contracted and the burst of heady satisfaction left me unable to breathe properly, my gasps were ragged and uneven. I matched that traitorous feeling, clitoral and vaginal, with one of humiliation.

  I finger fucked her and she came, fucking loved it!

  He had won, and I felt him smile as he kissed me. It was then I burst into tears of disgust and mortification, encompassing the agony of my secret and my fear for the future. He muffled my cries with his abhorrent mouth until I couldn’t breathe. When the heat left me and the overspill of my grief with it, he then took his own pleasure. I was grateful it was quick, until he whispered the words:

  “Tell me you love me, Anna.”

  I forced the words out, dragging each sound from somewhere deep inside and he replied with a sigh and a kiss.

  I scrubbed myself that night harder than I had done before, not caring that he noticed. What did he know of love? I cringed as I recalled my words to him. Disgusting, I was disgusting!

  The water made the skin under the metal shackle of my wrist rub and become sore.

  “Can you take this thing off?” I snapped, rattling the chain as anxiety bubbled again.

  But he knelt by my side and unlocked the chain, rubbing my wrist tenderly afterwards: get away from me! I shrugged his touch away and he started to stroke me, again, I growled and shifted irritably.

  “Anna, what’s wrong?”

  “Nothing.” I was furious, but I considered his temper and counted. “I just feel sick, I have a headache, I’m sorry.”

  “You’ve
been ill a lot recently.” It was a casual observation but I fumbled and dropped the flannel regardless.

  “I think it’s just my body’s way of healing.” I matched his light tone and continued to wash, but slower now as I thought of what to say next. He stood by my side with water and paracetamol. I thanked him and took them silently.

  “If it gets worse, you must tell me. I couldn’t bear anything happening to you.”

  I dipped my head and scowled, a thousand inappropriate replies in my mind, but instead I told him that I would, and smiled. Anna, I was Anna.

  Chapter Twelve

  I woke with a start as a huge bang echoed through the room, followed by gunshots. Will was already dressing. I grabbed the closest thing to hand, my dress, and threw it on.

  “What’s going on?”

  He didn’t reply, pulling two large hunting knives out from the bottom of his bag and fastening them onto his belt.

  More shots, followed by shouts.

  “Will?”

  “Most likely just a disagreement.”

  I laced my boots quickly and grabbed my jacket. It was freezing in the stupid dress.

  “What are you doing?” He stared at me and I looked back in confusion. “You’re not going anywhere.”

  “You can’t leave me locked up in here.” There was another gunshot, closer this time.

  “You’ll be safe here.” He walked to the door, pausing and staring at the chain on the floor. “Anna.”

  “No, Will, no. What if you get hurt? Or die? I’ll be chained to a wall, unable to move and I’ll be found and taken.”

  “I’ll be fine, you’ll be fine. Come here.”

  “No.” I screamed at him and he stared at me in fascination. “Take me with you.”

  “What?” He fastened his bag on his back. “Have you lost your mind?”

  “Take me with you, don’t fight, and just take me away from here. We can go somewhere new, somewhere quieter, just the two of us.” I gabbled, I don’t know what I was saying, I hadn’t considered any of it.

  “You want to leave? With me?”

  The shots were in quicker succession now and I wrung my hands together.

  “Yes, yes I want to leave with you.”

  “You want to start a life with me?”

  Wait, what? I almost backtracked, but this was my chance, I truly would be stupid not to grab it.

  “Yes.” I’m sorry Stephen, I don’t mean it. “I love you.”

  “What?”

  “I love you. Take me with you.”

  He paused for a moment, his hand on the door and then, tutting in frustration, he strode over and grabbed me by the hand.

  “Do exactly what I say.”

  I nodded and as we walked he took his gun from an alcove in the main library. I hadn’t exerted myself this much since he brought me back here. The pull on my ribs and my still sore shoulder tested me. Instinctively I ducked when the next flurry of shots cracked through the air. I couldn’t see where the shots came from, nor who fired them. Will’s hand was as tight as a vice, but I preferred it to the cuff. It was so dark every shape blurred into a huge expanse of grey and black like a lump of charcoal. I could almost taste it, bitter, coarse.

  Will knew exactly where he was going. We passed several houses like Olly’s. Those men and women not involved in the fighting stood at the doors and the faces of broken souls stared down at me from the bedroom windows.

  I tripped over a fallen lamppost and skinned both my knees on the ruined pavement. Stupid fucking dress. I swore through gritted teeth as Will helped me up. The shots were closer now and I pulled on his hand to get his attention.

  “Why are we walking towards the gunfire?”

  “This way is safer than the other exit.”

  Safer? Really? I couldn’t argue, he knew this town, I didn’t. He paused for a second and released my hand. I saw the gun clearly: a Glock 17, 9mm. He grabbed my hand again. We were deep in the centre of what had been the residential area of the town and now the houses were nothing more than piles of charred rubble.

  For some reason images of the police, armed and patrolling the streets prior to the bombings and the riots came to me. Dressed in black from head to toe, an intimidating force. I knew a policeman, he lived opposite us; tubby and cheery he would wave to me every morning as we both left for work. After the implementation of article six of the new police reform act, he never smiled, never waved and soon I became too frightened to smile or nod to him in public. People were arrested or shot for the simplest of things. The first few shootings were subject to national outcry and huge media interest. But then article six was amended, and all reporting banned under a counter terrorist guise. Things got worse and for the first time in twenty-two years there were empty cells in the prisons. I learnt to shoot. My neighbour invited me over one night and showed to me the Glock 17, 9mm, standard issue. By the end of the evening I was able to strip the gun, clean it and reload it. He couldn’t teach me to shoot it, his ammunition was rationed, but he did help me perfect my aim and shot with an airsoft handgun. I didn’t see my neighbour much after that. A few weeks later we were attacked and the police, and what was left of the military, combined forces. Declaring martial law, they patrolled the streets and dealt out instant justice. It was easy now to look back with clarity and unclouded judgement: the police were meant to protect us, the military meant to fight the enemy. Combined, their role was hazy: the people became the enemy, the enemy became the people. Yet we did nothing to stop it.

  Something grazed past my arm and there was a loud ping as it hit a wall by my side. I jumped and grabbed Will’s jacket in fear, pulling him closer to me. I tried not to think about how I had instantly looked to him for protection; and how ludicrous that was. I glanced at my jacket: the passing bullet had torn the thin material.

  He grabbed both my arms and pushed me through a hole in the wall, fervently checking my arms for injury. The pings ricocheted off the brick and the brick dust fell like rain around my head. I slowed down and looked around in bewilderment.

  “Anna, what are you doing?” He dragged me by my arm and as I stumbled and tripped, my head finally started to clear.

  “This is safer?” I asked as he marched me over and through another pile of debris.

  “Yes.”

  I could hear voices now, shouts accompanying the gun fire. It still didn’t feel completely real and only the smell of the dirt, the cold wind and the touch of my captor’s firm hand grounded me, bringing me back into the warzone. I almost slipped again, but he grabbed my arm and held me up as I skidded down the demolished bricks, taking a sharp right at the bottom where I saw a glimpse of the main fight, before he pushed me back against the side of a garage, his hand on my chest as he stared at the scene.

  So much fighting, so many people. There were fires raging throughout the housing estate, thick acrid smoke poured into the sky. It was noxious and it drowned my lungs. Sickened, I watched as two men beat a third with golf clubs as he desperately tried to crawl away; they were relentless and rained a barrage of blows until he stilled. I turned my head away and into Will’s jacket. He stroked my hair – I didn’t want him to touch me but my stomach was churning and I was struggling not to throw up.

  He didn’t move, and continued to survey the area, rhythmically stroking me. My curiosity won and I looked again. I shivered in the cold but he misunderstood and pulled me closer.

  “Don’t look if it scares you, Anna.” He spoke gently and stroked my hand with his fingers. He was always stroking me. His pet.

  “I’m fine.”

  At least a dozen thugs in the melee were firing at each other, and into the crowds, from vantage points in the ruined homes. The popping and crackling of the fires, the cat calling and shouts worked in grating counterpoint to the gunfire. Not everyone wanted to fight. Three different groups tried to pass through, crouching and covering their heads with their hands; but they were attacked. A small lad, maybe eighteen years old, was thrown to the floor an
d dragged by the hood of his jacket into the midst of a baying mob and attacked by three men twice his size and a thin woman with a heavy wrench. I couldn’t stop watching. His friends tried to help. Heroism, here? The smallest of them grabbed the arm of the nearest attacker and tried to pull him off. The light from the fire caught something in the attacker’s hand, for a moment I struggled to identify what it was he held, but, just as I did, it cut across the face of the smaller of the two. I winced and looked away.

  “When will they stop?”

  “When the Enforcers turn up.”

  Enforcers worked for the gangs and new communities as security and self-proclaimed police. Whoever paid the most received the most protection. They attacked for pleasure and payment.

  He squeezed my hand and then dragged me to the right as we threaded through the outskirts. I glanced at the faces of those fighting; I wished I hadn’t. So much anger and… delight?

  I tripped again and lost my footing, landing on already sore knees, and the stinging intensified. Will pulled me up. The soot and dirt clung to my skin. I’d become accustomed to being clean so quickly again that I was suffocating. While Will readjusted his backpack I leant against the side of a long ago burnt out car. Two men were throwing punches: one grabbed the head of his opponent and bit savagely into his ear, tearing away the lobe. Blood poured from the wound and the man grunted, grabbing his now ruined ear and running away. The attacker turned, locking his gaze onto mine.

  “Will.” He looked at me and I nodded ever so slightly upwards. “There’s someone behind.” My voice was almost a murmur. I needed him if I wanted to get out of here. He didn’t say anything but he drew one of the hunting knives and I closed my eyes. I counted and got to twenty-eight before there was a pull on my wrist and I opened my eyes. It was Will, he dragged me across the next street where the people slowly thinned out. I didn’t look behind me, I didn’t want to see what he had done. What I helped him do.

  At the end of the next street I realised why no one ever seemed to escape the towns. This was where most of the vehicles had been moved to, a wall of cars, buses, vans on their sides stretched as far as I could see around the perimeter. There was a small huddle of teenagers sitting in the bucket of a digger. One of the girls lit a cigarette and shot us a glance. Her bright pink hair visible in the dark. She looked so unperturbed with the terror in the town. Instead she laughed and joked with her friends while keeping an eye on Will. We didn’t run now, he raised a hand to the four guards by the only space in the wall, they looked up and signalled above us, I followed their nods to another row of armed men in the top storey of a nearby house, their guns trained on Will and me.