by A. Zavarelli
My father loved Javi. He treated him as his own son. And I can’t imagine why he would ever want to hurt me.
Fighting him off is a fruitless endeavor. The man is a brick wall. More terrifying than I ever could have imagined. And the fact that he has something to hide beneath that hood only adds to the escalating fear in my mind.
He secures the band around my head and forces my mouth open to lodge the ball between my teeth. Once it is secure, he taps me on the lips.
“This will stay in place until I have a use for your mouth.”
His words send another shot of adrenaline through my body, and it is pure instinct that has me trying to fight him off again. To flee.
I kick him in the stomach, and pain radiates up through the bottom of my leg as though I’ve kicked a rock. But still his grip on me loosens, and I grasp at the opportunity to run.
I make it ten steps before he’s got me by the hair again. I try to scream, but it only vibrates against my lips. He turns me in his arms, and I cower beneath his shadow, waiting for him to lash out.
This must be it. I expect him to hit me. To kill me. I don’t know what it is he wants from me, and I’m petrified to find out.
He reaches into his pocket again, and this time, he produces a knife. A strangled sound leaves my throat when he brings it to my chest and skims along my collar bone. I squeeze my eyes shut, and water leaks from the corners.
This can’t be real.
It can’t be real.
That’s what I try to tell myself. But it is real. And this isn’t how I want to die. I haven’t even lived yet.
The tip of the blade digs into my skin, and I stop breathing. I think of my father. I wonder how he could have ever trusted this man. How he could have ever cared for him. And then I wonder if Javi is responsible for his disappearance.
The stark conclusion is a shock paddle to my heart.
My eyes open again and seek out the golden orbs beneath the hood. But he is skilled at hiding them. So much so that I can no longer even see the lines of his face. And the need inside of me is real. To know. To unmask him and see him for the monster he really is. The boy that my father trusted and cared for. The one he sacrificed his time with me for.
I hate him. I hate him with a level of passion I have never confronted before.
I try to tell him so, but the words don’t come out the way they should. Instead, spit drips from the corner of my mouth, and my humiliation is real and painful.
But none of that matters. Because he is still wielding the knife against my skin. Edging the framework of my bones. And then he dips lower. So low, he’s tracing over my nipples with the tip of the blade. They harden in response.
My body is betraying me. Disgusting me. Giving him mixed signals. I reach up and wipe the spit from my chin. And then I do something incredibly stupid.
I hurl it at his face.
Another low growl. And he tugs me closer yet. So close, I can feel the sickening hardness of his erection pressed against me.
This is turning him on.
He drags the knife between the top button of my shirt, slicing through the thread. I try to move, and he clutches me by the throat this time, with a palm that could crush the life out of me in one good squeeze.
I am completely powerless to him. The reality of that washes over me again with stark clarity.
I don’t move. I don’t even breathe.
I just stand there, frozen and numb while he slices through the remaining three buttons. He slices all the way down until only two halves remain.
Tears leak from my eyes when he does the same to the bra strap beneath. My breasts spring free, and he touches them with the knife. Dragging the blade over the soft mounds in an exercise that tests his own will. It occurs to me that this knife is the only thing keeping him from touching me himself.
And suddenly, I am grateful for the blade.
I don’t understand it. I don’t understand the darkness of his mind, but I realize that I need to. If I want to survive whatever fucked up game he’s playing, I need to make sense of this. Of him.
He removes the scraps of my shirt and bra and allows them to fall to the floor. I squeeze my eyes shut again when he moves to my leggings and cuts through them too.
Nobody has ever seen me this way. Nobody has ever seen me bare. I feel raw. Exposed. Vulnerable. And there is nothing I can do.
The last and final piece to go is my panties. I try to beg him. I try to plead around the gag, but he doesn’t listen or care. He slices through the silky material and rips them away too.
I am naked in front of him.
My body is consumed with fear, and I don’t know what’s going to happen next. I can barely feel my legs as he drags me from the room, a blur of wild roses and shadows.
The floor is cold beneath my feet, and I wish I’d grabbed my shoes. I wish I’d never left my hotel room. I wish I’d done so many things differently.
His strides are too large, and I can’t keep up. My arm burns from his grip, and eventually, he grows impatient with me. Heaving me up like I am nothing more than a feather, he tosses me over his shoulders and clamps his forearm over the back of my thighs.
My head bobs over his shoulder, and my teeth gnash into the rubber ball with every forceful step. I try to count them. To distract myself. To focus on anything than whatever is about to happen.
He stops outside of an open door, and I stop moving too.
I’m gulping down breaths, and my heart feels like it’s going to explode in my chest. I wiggle in his grip and have one last futile attempt at fighting back, kneeing him in the chest while my hands slap at his face.
It does me no good.
He simply grabs me by the throat again and applies pressure with his thumbs in warning. It is the smallest exertion for him. Barely any effort at all, and already, I can hardly breathe.
The resistance flees from my body in the presence of dread. I feel like a well-trained dog already. Bowing to his silent commands in such a short amount of time.
I fear for my sanity if this is only day one. Part of me questions whether it might be better if he did kill me now.
When he sets me down onto my feet, and my breath returns, it is the first opportunity that I have to take in the room around me.
It is simple. Barren. And also, horrifying. There is nothing more than a bucket in the corner. And a piano in the center.
A piano.
The thing that used to be my instrument of choice now terrifies me more than anything.
Javi makes a gesture to the shiny black nightmare.
“Play for me,” he demands.
I glance up at him, and my reply is reflexive. Instant. A mumbled no. I wait for another threat. More terror. But it doesn’t come.
“No?” he repeats. “Suit yourself, beauty. I will play you a song instead.”
I don’t understand what he means. Because he leaves the room, sliding the heavy door into place until the locking mechanism clicks behind him.
I swallow and look around me. At the nothingness. At the emptiness. I’m freezing, and there is no comfort to be found in here.
Not anywhere.
I wrap my arms around myself and walk the length of the room to keep warm. I’m hungry and thirsty, and I don’t know how long it’s been since I’ve eaten.
The hunger that has been absent since my father’s disappearance is now back with a vengeance. My body is preparing for a fight. An all-out war.
But after a while, my feet are numb, and the walking isn’t helping. My stomach is growling, and my eyes are heavy, and I can think of nothing else to do. So I sit down in a corner and curl into myself.
The floor is hard. Painful. Uncomfortable. But even so, the exhaustion from earlier events lulls me into a deep sleep quickly.
I don’t know how long it lasts for. Only that I am jarred awake by the most horrifying of sounds.
Confusion and shock take me prisoner when I open my eyes and confront the images in front of me.
I never noticed it before. The projector on the wall. The projector that has now become my worst nightmare.
It’s a replay of a well-known celebrity gossip show. And I am the unwitting guest star of their conversation. The topic is old hat.
Specifically, the rumors of me sleeping with one of the judges to win the show. Each host throws in their two cents before they read some of the twitter comments from the aftermath while they laugh.
* * *
Fat, talentless cow.
* * *
Her face looks like it got ran over and glued back together.
* * *
Bitch can’t sing her ABCs. Go home, American Star, you’re drunk.
* * *
Another waste of human space. Hope she gets hit by a bus.
* * *
The insults continue, flinging at me like arrows. It’s a constant loop of interviews and my most caustic critics replayed at a volume I can’t ignore.
I close my eyes and hum to try to block it out. I press my hands to my ears. It doesn’t work.
I don’t want to cry. I don’t want to be weak. And I hate him for this. I have never met anyone so evil. Rage overcomes me.
I pound on the door until my nails break and my fingers swell. When that doesn’t work, I launch my entire body against the frame.
I scream until my throat is raw. I force the ball gag from my mouth in a fit. And just when I think I can’t take another second, everything goes silent again.
I stare up at the ceiling. At the blinking light where he is undoubtedly watching me from. I wait for the torture to begin all over again. But it doesn’t.
Ten minutes pass.
Then twenty.
And thirty.
I curl up on the floor, on edge and exhausted. My eyes fall shut, and I start to drift off again. The moment I do, the projector screams back to life with more of the same.
This time, I do cry.
The tears fall and the words I can’t avoid blister every corner of my mind. I don’t know how long it goes on for. I can’t tell night from day in this room. So I count the drinks instead.
Twice a day, he brings me a jug of water.
It isn’t enough. And I’m never prepared. I never know when he’s going to come.
So far, he’s been six times. But I’m never fast enough to get to him. He opens the door without a sound and sets them inside. Then he leaves before I get a chance to attack.
He has to know. He has to know that I would kill him right now if I could.
I’m going insane. I haven’t slept in three days, and I’m starving, and my mind is so fractured from this unspeakable torture that I could murder him with my bare hands if he let me near him.
I would try. And I wouldn’t feel guilty for it. This is the animal he’s turned me into.
In three short days.
By the fourth, I can take it no longer. The humming doesn’t work. Talking to myself doesn’t work. Blocking it out isn’t an option. And so I do the only thing that I can. I sit down at the piano, and I close my eyes.
And I play.
My fingers are rusty and cold and numb, and it hurts. The pain is almost crippling as they move over the keys. But the sound that floods the room is such a welcome relief that I push through it.
I push through it until my movements are fluid and my voice is humming along with the notes. And just like that, everything else fades away.
My fear is gone, and I am playing again.
I think of the notes. The notes he used to write me. And his words.
* * *
Sing me a song, with words only I can hear.
* * *
This is what he wanted all along.
When I open my eyes again, he’s there. In the doorway. My fingers pause, and he shakes his head. The room is silent now. The projector turned off. And I’ve lost the will to fight.
This is my chance to kill him. To claw his eyes out. But I can’t move.
I’m so tired. So numb. All I want to do is sleep.
“Keep playing,” he tells me.
I stare at him. It would be so easy to give in. To do what he wants and stop this pain. This torture. But I can’t bring myself to give up.
Not yet.
So, I stop playing.
He leaves the room again. The projector does not come on again. Not that night. Or any after.
Instead, I am entombed in silence. Silence so deafening, it is a different animal altogether. I start to imagine sounds that aren’t real. I start to see shadows that I know aren’t real. I feel like I’m going insane all over again, and I don’t know which is worse.
The room is pitch black now. There is no light to be found in this prison. Twenty-four hours a day, I sit in darkness.
I talk to myself. I pick at my skin. Bugs crawl all over me. I hear him in the room with me, breathing. At some point, I hear a baby crying. When I seek out the source of the noise, it disappears entirely.
He brings me food, but I never know when. I can’t see him. I crawl around the floor like a dog, seeking it out. Always the same thing, over and over again.
Peanut butter and jelly sandwiches.
I eat them and want for more. My stomach is so empty that it is caving in on me. Sometimes, I catch myself biting my lip just to taste the blood.
I am feral.
Wild.
An animal.
And this is what he wanted.
I cry. I wail. I mutilate myself on the walls, cutting and scratching my skin just to feel something different. I haven’t showered since I’ve been here. I go to the bathroom in the bucket, like a heathen. I get my period and have no choice but to use some of my precious drinking water to clean myself with.
I am disgusting. Ashamed. Cold and lonely and tender in a way that I never thought was possible.
At some point, my mind fractures completely. I feel it happen.
I am broken.
And I am willing to do anything. Anything at all. Anything he says. Just to stop this madness. So with my last scraps of remaining energy, I crawl to the piano stool and pull myself from the floor. I sit down and will my fingers to move. They are stiff and painful and bloody.
But I play.
I play a song for him. With words only he can hear. I sing him a song I’ve never sung out loud. With lyrics from my journal.The one that the world has never seen or heard before. And soon, the door opens again. This time, there is light.
It hurts my eyes.
It’s so beautiful, I cry because I can’t bear to look at it. To believe it’s real. But he’s there. And I don’t stop playing. I don’t dare.
I play him three more songs before he halts me. He comes to sit beside me on the bench. And he does something that I don’t expect. He pulls me into his arms and pets my cheek reverently. I burrow into his palm. Into his warmth and his touch and his scent, so comforting after so long in isolation. And I hate myself for it.
I want to die for feeling this way. For allowing him to break me. For turning me into this slave to human affection, even at the cost of reaping it from a monster.
He holds me. He soothes me. And it is so confusing. It feels like a trick from this man who has tortured me for so long.
He kisses my face. I am foul. But he doesn’t care. His lips are soft, and they feel good. I will do anything to feel good.
I tell him so.
“Good girl,” he answers. “You are learning, my Bella.”
I nod into his chest like a puppet. And then I cry. He rubs my back. Then he carries me from the room. Back to the conservatory. To the bathroom nestled into the far corner.
He deposits me in the bathtub. The cold porcelain bites into my skin and penetrates my bones. But I don’t even flinch this time. I’ve grown used to the cold. I’ve become one with the agony. And right now, the smallest of luxuries, even from him… feels like everything.
“Lay back, beauty,” he directs me. “It’s time to come clean.”
C
hapter Ten
She lays back in the tub when I ask without protest.
And finally, the beauty is broken.
It took longer than I anticipated. She is stubborn. Strong.
Even now, when she looks up at me with misty eyes, it pains her to give in. To break down and need these things from me.
The monster.
The beast.
Her captor.
If I had any sympathy for the sweet girl, I would tell her she has no reason to be ashamed. It is a systematic destruction of the human psyche that anyone will succumb to, given the right amount of time and circumstances.
But I am not sympathetic to her plight, even as I wash her and she responds to my touch like a well-broken pet.
She is beautiful. Lovely. Even as messy and shattered and filthy as she is right now. But I won’t allow that to make me forget. She will pay. She has to.
It is the only way.
And so I wash her, but I do not comfort her anymore. Comforts must be earned. And right now, she still has much work to do.
“Why are you doing this to me?” she whispers so meekly as I wash her hair.
“To see if you are stronger than their words,” I tell her.
This is not the thing I should have said. But it is exactly the reason I chose the method that I did. And I must remember not to be so honest with her. Because now she looks at me differently.
She looks at me like I might care. Which I don’t. And she must never think otherwise.
“Bella,” I reply. “Do you remember what I said earlier about having a use for your mouth?”
She doesn’t answer me, so I tug on the wet strands of her hair until she squeezes her eyes shut.
I do not like her this way. Acting so delicate. Her nipples are hard, and I am certain if I were to thrust my fingers between her legs, she would be wet for me.
Little liar.
“Perhaps I was wrong,” I say. “Perhaps you need to spend some more time in your piano room.”
“No!” she cries and curls into herself. “Please, Javi. I will do anything. Anything! Just don’t send me back in there.”