Fragments

by Morgan Gallagher

  “No.”

  The sound of his voice went off beside her like a bomb. He hadn’t shouted, hadn’t spoken at more than a whisper, but it ruptured her illusion of safety, of the possibility of escape. She stared at him.

  “Do not leave the bed.”

  She saw the lips move, heard the words, but still he was so completely empty, so completely dead. For a moment she doubted herself, doubted he had spoken. What if it was her? What if she was making him up, had imagined his presence, never mind his voice? The thought scalded her, stole away what little composure she had. Without thought of it, she was up and off, heading for the doorway. Away, away, that was all she could think of. Away.

  She tripped on the sheet that was wrapped round her, fell heavily onto the cool floor, found almost no purchase in it. A scrabble, a frantic scrabble, as she desperately tried to make the doorway just ahead of her. She kicked the sheet away, bare feet slipping and sliding on the surface of the bedroom. The darkness was really just ahead of her, the doorway was there, just there. With a push, she was over the threshold, scrabbling round on all fours, scooting through. The darkness was complete, she could see nothing once more, feel only the cold slickness underneath her. She tried to stand, found the door to her right, found the door handle. On her knees she rose and slammed the door shut, shutting out the light, shutting out Him. The silence crashed around her again, the darkness. The sound of rasping laboured breath. She put her thoughts away from her, to one side, and concentrated on the door. A door handle, maybe there was a lock, a key? In the dark she searched, her hands sodden with sweat once more. Nothing, she found nothing. Substituting her body for a lock, she turned around, slamming her back against the door, grimacing at the pain it caused. Sliding down, ignoring more pain, she landed on her bum and pushed. All she was she put into pushing against that door, feet barely gaining hold on the cold floor. She’d gone from a sheet between them, to a solid wooden door: she wasn’t giving it up. As she pushed, feet endlessly slipping on the floor, a thought did occur to her. It was the little voice again, the tiny echo somewhere in the back of her mind, the one that kept making suggestions, good, bad, fucking dangerous. You’re not being chased, it said. Nothing has come after you. She listened to it despite herself. All she wanted to do was concentrate on that wonderful solid door, and relish that she couldn’t see Him. No, that he couldn’t see her! She was this side, he was the other: it was going to stay that way. But the voice still niggled, still murmured, still sought to betray her jubilation. There was no one following her. There was no weight being pushed against the door. Nothing. It sank in, slowly, as the darkness around her did. She’d made the door because she hadn’t been chased: no one was after her. This thought slithered in as she continued to press against the door, continued to fight and slip and slide and desperately scrabble for support, something to hold onto to help her block Him out. No one was after her. It was just her, and the dark, and her rasping, echoing breath, and not knowing where the hell she was. Again.

  It didn’t take long for tears to start. The feeling of complete helplessness, of humiliation. The dark around her once more became a physical thing that pressed down on her, swallowed her. She fancied she could taste it as it entered her mouth, beat against her eyes. She screamed, to force the dark away from her, to scare it out of her mouth, away from her eyes. The scream echoed, empty, hollow, fading. The sweat had started to pour from her again, rancid, slick; coating everything she touched. It became harder to stay against the door, to keep her folded legs under her. The more she tried, the more she slid around, the less hold she had. In a desperate movement to retain her position, she tried to stand a little, wedge her body harder into the cool frame. Her feet slid away and she fell, banging her head against the door. It didn’t hurt that much, but the unexpected motion of meeting something so hard and unyielding, of slipping again and again, of getting nowhere: it all took its toll. Before she could stop herself, before the voice could tell her this wasn’t a smart idea, she gave up. Lying on the floor, trying to ignore the wet sucking sounds of her own body, she put her hands over her face and folded herself in. She didn’t care, she couldn’t care: it was all too much. All there was were her tears, her terror and the dreadful stench of herself in the dark. She wasn’t going to play anymore, she was going home. The crying took her over, her head bowed so her face touched her knees, her hair plastered over her. She rocked in the sobbing darkness.

  He sat, waiting, listening. He made a bet with himself: an hour, no longer.

  She discovered going away was problematic. She didn’t know how long she had been rocking, how long she had been crying, but slowly, and as surely as when she had woken up, awareness started to reaffirm, force her to take notice of herself. Once more it started with her back. What had been a deep aching cramp was now a burning pain, spread up and around from the base of her spine. Her shoulders were bruised and aching too, adding their own tones to her back pain. Rocking, it had to be admitted, might have been comforting in some strange way, but it also hurt. The floor beneath her was no longer cold, but it was hard, hard and raw and pressing into her hip bone. Her head was filled with cotton wool, hard, impacted cotton wool that weighed her down and made her feel sick. Her face was just as sore, raw and open from the tears that stung their way endlessly over her skin. A gob of snot trailed from her nose down her cheek, sliding off into her hair. It was no good; as soon as she noticed one thing about her body another brought itself to her attention. She wiped her nose. Her hands ached, as did her wrists. Her knees felt raw and bruised, the soles of her feet tender and sore. Her lungs hurt and her throat felt as if it had been torn out. She was finding breathing difficult, a situation not helped by her being bent double. It was no good, the voice was saying, no good at all. She was just going to have to unfold, stretch out, breathe. She didn’t want to, didn’t want to admit she was awake, conscious, feeling. But the feeling part was not open to negotiation, she was feeling entirely too much.

  It hurt to move but there was a great sense of relief, satisfaction, in turning on her back and stretching out. She realised she had been feeling stuffy and over hot, as moving back her head and letting in a great gulp of air, a sense of openness and coolness caressed her mouth and face. There was also a feeling of dizziness, but it soon passed. Lying there, spread out on the floor, heat and moisture evaporating off her body, she felt better, better than she had done. She sucked in the air, grateful for the release, grateful that there was something nice about the world. The room around her fell into perfect silence as her breathing slowed, calmed, became still. She concentrated on that for a moment, bringing her world down to the tiny regular movement of air going in, air going out. Air going in, air going out. The pains faded for a moment as she felt the air coming in, going out. The voice started up again. Started to think ahead, wonder what was going to happen, was she going to stand, was she going to sit? How had she gotten there? She pushed this question aside, it wasn’t to be looked at. She didn’t know why, but just thinking about it made her stomach clench, brought an iron band around her lungs making it difficult to breathe. She searched around for another question, something easier. The voice accommodated: was she going to lie there for ever ‘til she died of hunger and thirst? What a dramatic thought, she mused. To lie here and die of hunger and thirst. The voice laughed at her, began to talk through the odds of that, given what was on the other side of the door. This thought galvanised her, made her sit up too quickly, the dizziness almost overwhelming her. The other side of the door. He was on the other side of the door. Shit!

  He loved to win bets. That had made three in a row this evening. He stood, silently moving towards the door. His hand reached for the switch. Soon, very soon.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  Her back was once more against the door, her legs, aching and cramped, brought round in front of her. How could she have let herself go all floppy, all silly and stupid, to lie down and cry, hoping she would die from the pain of it? How could she? The anger b
urned in her mouth. She was a stupid cow. She was a complete fool and no matter what she was going to get out of this. The voice approved, told her that was a good thought, she should hold on to it. It wasn’t all she needed to hold on to. Sitting up had released another sensation in her body. Her bladder was bursting. The dark was once more around her, her body once more wedged against the door, and the need to go was suddenly with her. Strong, insistent, as if she had been ignoring it for some time. Now what was she going to do?

  His finger lightly stroked the switch, pulsing, sensing, judging. Stand up little bird, stand up for Daddy...

  The more she thought on it, the worse it became. It soon blotted out all but the pain in her back, even her throat became less demanding than the pressure, the actual physical pain that was starting to build in her groin. It was absurd to her, totally surreal, that of all things to concern her, pinned as she was on the side of that door, she was being driven wild by the need to pee. Even the voice agreed that this was silly, stupid, ridiculous. What could they do? She and the voice thought it over. They both came to the same conclusion, the only sensible conclusion there was: she should pee. Let it out, get rid of the pain and concentrate on the door. Sitting up there, in her brain, full frontal: an idea. It wasn’t an appealing idea. Sensible yes, appealing, no. She changed her mind, arguing with the voice: it was a terrible idea? The voice, she discovered, was somewhat of a fair weather friend: it didn’t answer her back. It had gone away, gone in the now grinding pressure of holding herself in. It was no good, she was going to have to move, sitting here on the hard floor wasn’t helping. She was going to have to stand up, leave the door alone, and try and work out where she was. She dimly realised that not wetting herself, crumpled on the floor, in the dark, was more important to her than holding onto the door. She didn’t understand it, but there it was. She took a deep breath and scrambled awkwardly to her feet.

  Flick.

  She screamed, a small part of her aware that this was another pathetic action, but the pain once more blotted all rational thought out. Her eyes once more protested, her hands flung instinctively to protect them. She would have dropped back down, but the fear froze her, kept her stranded up there, standing, caught by the brightness that had pierced her through. Red flooded her eyes, ghost images once more dancing in front of her, keeping track as she shook her head to and fro. The crying started, a wail tearing itself free of her chest. Shit, he was there, he was there! It was no good. He was there. The smell hit her from underneath: sharp, acid, pungent. She felt a warm puddle build around her bare feet: she had wet herself.

  The acrid scent flooded under the door. Urine filled to its limit with toxins. A delightful bonus in a game already filling him with glee. His hand reached for the handle.

  She was stooped over, half way to the floor, half upright. Her hands were jabbed in her eyes, rubbing, trying to force them to adjust quickly. She couldn’t be here, she couldn’t be here, in the middle of nowhere, naked, wet. She just couldn’t. She couldn’t move; she knew that she needed sight, she needed some direction. She forced her hands away, forced herself to blink. She must conquer this, must take charge of her senses.

  “I told you not to leave the bed.”

  She startled, whirling round, trying to face where the voice was. A scream was caught fast in her throat; she would not let it out. She wasn’t going to scream again, not ever. Her feet slipped in the puddle. As she opened her eyes and tried to bring her head up, she fell back, back onto the soaking wet floor, back onto the hardness and the pain. Her shoulder hit something half way down. Hit it hard. Stars danced around in her eyes, pain blossoming out from the joint, her head snapping forward. She slid down on her side, dazed. Too dazed to scrunch up, to hide. She lay there, sprawled, wedged between something. Something hard, cold, at her back, something hard and cold in front of her. Naked, apart from a coat of her own urine and sweat. The small, distant voice came back: it wasn’t very helpful. She pushed the thoughts down with some effort. Shame was riding her, riding her harder than the fear. Her eyesight was clearing, helping her identify where she was. A toilet bowl was in front of her, a brilliant white sheen that showed the wreck of her all too clearly. Her arm was screeching, shouting that she had to move before something got mashed. She tried to sit up, found she couldn’t. It was a narrow space, she was sore and slippery. She tried again, her elbow banging against the cold hard behind her. She slipped back down on to the floor, defeated.

  There was a sharp intake of breath from somewhere above her, a sigh of impatience. She scrunched her eyes shut tight, turned her head to the floor, her fists clenching. She wouldn’t look, she wouldn’t look.

  “Allow me to aid you.”

  The words didn’t make sense to her, couldn’t make sense.

  “I will not repeat myself. Allow me to help you.”

  There was a tone in those words, an unmistakable air of menace. It was a threat clear and loud. “Do as I ask,” his voice had said, “and it will be okay. Fight me, it will not.” She heard it plainly. Her own inner voice heard it too. Her voice urged her to get up, to turn round, to do anything rather than just lie there. She followed the advice.

  She couldn’t see him clearly as she first turned round. The light in the ceiling was behind him, dazzling her. All she got a sense of was his shape leaning down to her, an arm clearly extended to her. She reached up for it. His grasp was strong and firm, pulling her to her feet in one sure movement. Her body screamed its dislike of the action, her mind screamed louder. No sound left her lips. She felt proud of that, if nothing else. He let go of her as soon as he was sure of her footing. She stood, clumsily, trying to hide herself from him, which was impossible. Defeated, her arms dropped to her sides, her head down. He had very shiny shoes. Very expensive shoes. They didn’t look pleased, those shoes, standing in her piss. A hand reached for her, lifted her chin up, to stare at him. Their eyes were of almost equal height, which she found curious. A light brown, flecked with tiny shards of amber. Dark hair matched his eyes.

  “You smell. You smell foul.”

  His emphasis on the ‘foul’ made her flush red. She tried to drop her eyes, her head, away from his piercing gaze, her hands automatically coming back up, trying to hide, to cower. He held her firm, forcing her attention.

  “Clean yourself and come back through to the bedroom.” He turned back to the door, opening it, leaving. Before he disappeared through it, he turned back, addressed her in that no nonsense voice. “Do not be long.”

  The door closed quietly. Tears coursed over her burning cheeks. As he left the bedroom, aiming for the kitchen, he started to hum to himself. Gods, what a find. She gave such great fear. He switched the kettle on and busied himself. He had plenty of time.

  The bathroom was huge; black and white marble. The floor and walls matched perfectly. White marble flecked with black on the floor, black marble flecked with white on the walls. The toilet and bidet, between which she had so recently rested, were brilliant white. The double vanity unit was gleaming black stone with equally gleaming white stone sinks. The fixtures were silver and black. The shower stall alone was bigger than her bathroom at home. It took up about a quarter of the room, easily holding about six people. It had a series of shower fixtures up the walls and across the top. She’d seen the like in movies, never in real life, not even in hotels at business conventions. The bath was actually quite small, compared to the rest of the room, but it was oval rather than bath shaped, with vents along the sides which she guessed meant it was a jacuzzi. There was a floor to ceiling cupboard with louver doors in silver. It looked like they were real silver, at least to touch. The back of her head, the voice, was screaming that she had to stop looking at the frigging decor and do something. She ignored it. Looking was doing something, it was doing about the only thing she could cope with. She’d crumpled down onto the wet floor when he had left, shaking. When she realised what she was doing, she had jumped up like a scalded cat. ‘Sides, she wasn’t getting into no shower
‘til she’d checked what was in the damned cupboard. The voice told her he wasn’t in the cupboard. She knew that, she told the voice, she was just being cautious. The cupboard was filled with towels. Pure white, soft. Looking at them, touching them, the tears started again, the shaking. No, screamed the voice. No! No! No! No way. If she fell apart, he was coming back for her and she didn’t want that. The thought did drive some of the dreamy feeling from her, did drive her into the shower. It took a few moments, but she finally got the water out of at least half the jets, first too hot, then too cold, then okay. There were plenty of gels and shampoos and such, on a fitted wire shelf right there in the shower. She stared at them, unthinking. The water ran off her, down the drain. The first thing she noticed, the only thing she really noticed, was that the smell was going. The smell of steam was replacing the smells of... let’s not think about that. She’d never thought that steam had a smell, that it smelt clean, warm, friendly. Her hair was flattened down onto her scalp, the water running off it over her shoulders. She tried to run her hands through it, it was matted, sticky. The water was making it wetter, not cleaner. She reached for the shampoo.