E52

  Coming to terms with myself and what I need to do, I sit and wait, praying that he will soon release me.

  The silence is broke as a loud growl overtakes the immediate area. Suddenly and with great power, he releases me from his grasp. Caught off-guard, I do not have time to react. My hand slams on the hard floor beside me. His growling is no longer perceptible to my ears, only the sound of the bones within my hand cracking as the floor is as unforgiving as he. The pain that I felt before is nothing to the agony that I now experience.

  Afraid to try to move my newly broken hand, I let it rest on the floor. I am in excruciating pain and want to cry, but if I do, I will suffer consequences that are even more painful. I have no other choice but to keep my head pointed toward the ground and keep my feelings prisoner inside me. I will never show him the pain I am enduring.

  As time slowly passes, seconds feel like hours and minutes like days. I know he is not done with me yet, but what I do not know is what will happen next. Without warning, I feel his power as he grabs my hair and whips my head back toward him. He is standing behind me!

  Suddenly, I am staring at the darkness that keeps me here. His true identity never seen, he is wearing a mask that hugs his face like a second skin. I continue to stare, studying his physique as if I am studying a piece of impressionistic art.

  Although I have no way of knowing what he truly looks like, there is something about him I find hypnotizing. I try to look away, but I can’t. His eyes look like empty, bottomless pits, the blackness pulling me in further and further until I am in a trance. I am no longer under my power. I continue to stare.

  “It is like he has no soul,” I think to myself.

  As if he has heard my silent words, he chuckles.

  Still holding a fistful of my dirty, blonde hair, he smiles as he wipes the tears from my cheeks.

  “Is something wrong?” he asks in a devilish tone.

  I am afraid to say anything, but at the same time, I am afraid not to answer him. My answer slips from my mouth.

  “Nothing wrong here. Just another day in paradise,” I smirk, as he continues to whip my head in every direction.

  As the dreadful words come out of my mouth, I know what I am saying is wrong. I can’t help it. I am in pain and out of patience. I take in a deep breath, roll my eyes in the back of my eye-sockets, and shake my head in disbelief. What have I done? How could I let myself slip in such a manner? Feared, I close my eyes and wait the punishment that is my only destiny.

  With a chuckle, my captor whips my head toward the ground, releasing my hair from his clutches. Instantly, the muscles in my neck and shoulders burn, and it feels as if a hot poker has just been stabbed into the back of my neck.

  I roll my neck around and lift my shoulders trying to relieve the pain. When I realize what I am doing, I immediately stop. Hysteria has now set in. Not only have I spoken in a tone that I am sure he deems inappropriate, I moved without permission. This is it; I will be hurt again. I just don’t know what pain I will suffer this time.

  “I think it’s going to cry,” he says to me with an evil laugh.

  My name is Lue. I am twenty-nine years old. I live in a small town called Swan Valley. I have a mother. I have a father. I have a fiance who loves me dearly. His name is Kamrin, I say in a soft whimper. 的 am not an I am a woman.

  “I guess with that bit of information, you are now wanting to know something about me?” he asks in the utmost condescending voice.

  He walks back over to my side and pauses where my hand lies.

  “Let’s play a game,” he says. “I know how old you are. Now guess my age.”

  Suddenly, I feel a breeze against my arm as he slams his heel hard on the ground next to me, each time coming closer to my hand.

  “I am going to continue doing this until you are correct,” he laughs. “So you better start guessing quickly; the heel of my shoe is getting closer to those little fingers of yours.”

  Each time the heel of his shoe nicks my skin, he laughs. His disturbing laughter fills the room. He is enjoying the sick game he is playing.

  “You’re thirty-five!” I scream.

  “Wrong!” He laughs as he slams his foot down closer to my fingers.

  “Forty,” I cry.

  “Wrong again!” He laughs.

  I feel the rubber of his shoe nick my fingers.

  I demand upon myself.

  I try to concentrate on his voice, hoping that I will get an indication to how old he is. I have to get the answer right soon, or I will suffer another fracture.

  “Twenty-nine!” I scream. “Twenty-nine!”

  As quickly as it all began, it is over. Never saying another word, he turns and walks away.

  “I guess I got it right,” I say within myself. “What a sick bastard!”

  A sense of relief overcomes me, and I pray that I am safe for now.

  I peek through the corners of my eyes and watch as he walks up the stairs toward the door leading out of the “hellhole” he keeps me in. I am safe. My punishment is over. I take in a deep breath and look over at my hand that still lies paralyzed in pain. Amazed by the bruise that has taken over my entire hand and wrist, I try to move it. The pain is too intense.

  Exhausted from anguish; I need a minute before I try to get up and bandage my hand.

  I lie on the ground, look up at the moldy ceiling, and stare at the chipped paint, imagining they are stars and that I am lying in a plush green field.

  I begin crying. Tired and lonesome, I cry myself into hysterics. All I want is for this torture and pain to end. I want left alone, and if this is the place I am to die, I wish it would happen without my mind or body enduring any more pain.

  A sudden burst of laughter echoes throughout the room. The floor beneath me shakes. Startled by the movement and the loud laughter, I leap up and in one swift movement sit back in a kneeling position.

  Evil is back!

  “Although you won the game, you still need to learn your lesson!” he screams in my ear.

  Before I can prepare myself for any of his hateful doings, he places the heel of his foot on my broken hand, crushing my bones beneath it. A new wave of agonizing pain overtakes my hand. Angrier than ever, I leave my pain unseen, unheard. I will not allow a sound to escape my mouth this time.

  “I will not give into him... I will not give him that pleasure,” I think to myself.

  My silence angers him even more. He finds it exhilarating to see me in pain. That is why he has come back. He has to see more. He desires to keep hurting me until I scream. I will not. I cannot do it! This is my only way of getting back at him. I have to make certain that I do not show him any emotion at all.

  It is a fight between good and evil. He will not give in, nor will I. He continues pressing hard on my knuckles until he is sure there is not a bone left unbroken. The pain is overwhelming. My plan of action is not working. He is not going to stop this time until I finally apologize and give him the pleasure that he so desires. Evil will conquer once again.

  “I’m sorry. I did not mean to break the rules,” I whimper.

  “Did you learn your lesson?” the man asks in an eerie tone.

  “Yes, sir, I did,” I answer in a soft, apologetic voice.

  “And what lesson did you learn?” he asks.

  “Not to move unless told to,” I cry.

  “And?” he continues.

  “Never to speak to you in such a sarcastic manner,” I answer softly.

  Satisfied with my answers, he slowly removes his foot from my hand and walks away.

  Afraid that he will come back again, I watch him as he walks up the stairs and I do not move until I hear the door shut and lock behind him. Once I hear his footsteps at the other end of the house, I breath. It is finally over.

  I have made it through another punishment. Slowly I reach over and lift my hand up with the hand that remains unaffected by his abuse. I look down and realize that he has crushed my hand so badly that not only is it broken, but
also the skin has busted, causing wide gashes on the side of two of my fingers. They are bleeding profusely.

  I rip a piece of lace from my dirty gown and wrap the two busted fingers as tight as possible. It hurts, but the bleeding must stop.

  After a few minutes of constant pressure, the bleeding ceases. I stand up.

  It has been about ten minutes since my captor has left, so I am safe for the night. Usually, once he has one of his fits he does not return until the next day.

  “I need to wash these wounds and find something clean to put on them,” I think to myself.

  I don’t have to look long for something to wrap my hand in. I only have one dress and one extra pair of underwear, and I have the dress on.

  It will anger him if I tear my underwear, and he probably will not allow me any others. But I have no other choice, I have used everything else up on cuts I received in the past. First, I had to use my grandmother’s handkerchief. It was the one that my mother had given me on my wedding day. Destroying it is such a manner caused me great sadness. When that was all used up, I slowly had to tear my extra dress up. Piece by piece I used every inch of material as my punishments became more severe and more frequent.

  I peer down at the clean underwear I hold in my hand, staring at them as if they are the last bit of hope I have in my life. Although he is gone, the fight between evil and good continues in my mind. I convince myself that by using the underwear as a bandage, I will suffer no more than just a slap on the wrist. `

  “He will understand... he has to,” I say softly.

  I stand and debate with myself for a bit longer, as I continue to stare at the only option I have.

  “Just do it,” a voice inside me demands. “It needs done or the filth from your dress will cause an infection, and then what will you do?”

  I bend down, place the material under my bare foot, and hold it firmly down. With my unbroken hand, I pull on the underwear, ultimately ripping my panties in half.

  “I guess there is no turning back now,” I say beneath my breath.

  I walk over to the bucket of water rations I have for the week and look into the wooden bucket. There is only a small amount of water left. I sigh. I will have to use what I have left to clean my wounds and suffer in thirst until he brings me more. Uncertain of what day it is, I am unsure just how long that will be.

  Time here stands still, so I never know what day it is.

  I kneel over the bucket for a bit longer, before I reach down and take the last drink of water I will have until I don’t know when. I hold it in my mouth for a brief second, enjoying the cool water against my tongue. I think of a time when I took having water for granted, then slowly swallow. The brisk water feels nice as it runs down my dry throat. My thirst satisfied, but only for a brief second.

  Tears fill the corners of my eyes. It is obvious that I am sitting here for one reason and one reason only; I must clean my wounds. I hate the thought of having no more water and the pain that awaits me from the cool water once it touches my open cuts. I think of the pain that I will suffer and sob.

  I chance another infection or I can have water to drink; either way my suffering destined to continue. I take in a shallow breath and slowly put my broken hand in the bucket of water to soak.

  The pain steals the breath within me. I gasp.

  “Why does he continue to hurt me?” I question. “Why must he see me in pain?”

  As the cool water remains on my broken and busted fingers, my hand numbs and the pain subsides enough that the pain is bearable.

  I hold in any further tears, rest my head against the bucket edge, and let my hand stay in the water. Afraid that once I take it out it will hurt worse than it had before, I close my eyes and let my mind and soul relax. The serenity is peaceful.

  The tension in my muscles releases.

  “That feels better,” I whisper.

  CRACK!

  The overwhelming sound of a semi truck crashing into a concrete wall exceeds the silence. The worst pain I have ever felt overtakes my head.

  I try to focus on what has caused the sudden pain, but it impossible to concentrate.

  “What’s wrong with me?” I question myself.

  My head continues to throb in horrific pain. What has happened?

  I try to lift my head, but it is as if someone has attached a hundred-pound weight to my forehead. I cannot move.

  “What was that sound, and where did it come from?” I question myself.

  With my uninjured hand, I grab a handful of my hair and hold it tightly. With the bit of energy I have left I am able to lift my head from the bucket.

  Once I am able to hold my head without the help of my hand, I try to remove an unknown substance from my eyes. My actions are futile, my eyes continue covered with a filmy substance restricting me from seeing anything more than a blur.

  Woozy, it is almost impossible to lift my arm, but I must see. I wipe my eyes again. My arms, weak, and my fingers, slippery, cause my hand to slide off my face and slam on the ground. I look down. Through my obscured vision, I see that a red film overlays my hand. It is not tears that is blurring my vision, but it is my blood.

  “Maybe blood had gotten on my other hand without me knowing it,” I think, deceiving myself.

  With great concentration I focus on my broken hand. It is still in the water, and there is no sign that it fell out while I was relaxing, or that the blood came from it.

  “Where is this blood coming from?” I question.

  I try to think of my past actions. I look at my blood-drenched hand again and suddenly remember that I had used that hand to take a drink earlier, and at that time, the hand was clean. My mind continues to get dizzier with every second that passes, until I am no longer able to hold my upright position. Like a rag doll that has just been dropped, I fall forward, slamming my head onto the bucket below. Stunned by my sudden movement, I stare out into the darkness in disbelief. I am too weak to move again.

  As I blankly look down at the ground, I notice that the few drops of blood I had seen moments before is now a puddle of the red serum. I watch in horror as more trickles down on the floor. My heart skips a beat.

  I think to myself. I am panic-stricken.

  I rest my arm on my leg and move my fingers across my head, hoping to find out exactly where the blood is coming from. After a few seconds of searching, I find a deep gash on the right side of my head. Instantaneously, a wave of exhaustion overcomes me, and my eyes begin to shut. I try to fight the unconsciousness, but it is of no use. I can no longer keep my eyes open. Everything in the room appears to be spinning around me.

  “Stop spinning,” I holler, attempting to keep my self from vomiting.

  My mind continues in the deception until I am unable to comprehend anything more than the movement and the sound of my fast-beating heart as it pounds in my ears.

  “I can’t let myself pass out,” I think to myself. “What will happen to me then?”

  My dizziness intensifies as my body continues to weaken. My head is heavy, and I can no longer hold it against the edge of the bucket.

  My arms become like putty and no longer support my body, causing my hand to buckle beneath me. Heavy like an iron, my head slams on the floor with such great force that my mouth instantly bleeds. Fearful of losing too much blood, I use both my hands and endure the pain while I apply as much pressure as I possibly can on the area where blood is continuing to gush out. I ignore the blood coming from my mouth and the pain that is shooting through my broken hand, as it all is minimal compared to the blood-soaked floor beside me. I look up for a moment. is standing in front of me holding a bloody hammer.

  I try to reach for him, but my arms are too weak. I try to speak, but my words slur. As my body give in, the last thing I hear is a burst of immortal laughter coming from where his uncaring stature stands.

 

 

&n
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