It’s black, there’s no light coming in. I hear yelling. I don’t think I’m hallucinating, it sounds real. Then a slam, followed by a car leaving. I lay there, one arm handcuffed to the bed, the rest of my body free. I think about the brunette and her question. “Why does he help you?” I don’t know who she spoke of. Was it the man I saw, the one that doesn’t speak? I wasn’t sure if he was real or not. I didn’t even believe she was real until I felt the shower and tasted the food.
The door latches are being moved, I can hear it. The click, clack. A slight light follows and I look up, expecting it to be the dark figure, but it’s not. It’s a small figure, his head looking in, assessing everything. His eyes stop when they’re on me. He looks me dead in the eyes, and then walks in, shutting the door and flicking on the light.
He’s small, possibly eight to ten years old. He ambles to me, stopping at the single chair that’s not that far from my bed and sits down. He sees me handcuffed to the bed and looks worried, his eyes shooting back to mine.
“You bad?” he asks, his voice soft. I don’t know how to answer that question so I choose not to. He’s smart, he reads my silence.
“Mr. Black, he isn’t bad. He looks after me, treats me right,” he goes on, looking at the door like he’s expecting to get in trouble at any minute.
“Mr. Black?” I ask him.
“Yeah, Black. The man who owns this house. The man who cuffed you.” He points to my wrist, telling me the obvious.
“Can you get me out of here?” I pull on my cuff, wanting it to break so I can break free. He shakes his head, hard.
“Want a lolly?” he asks, ignoring me, pulling out a lollipop from his pocket. I can’t say no, my hunger is always present. He hands it to me, and I basically snatch it from his hand, peeling the wrapper away and shoving it in my mouth.
“I have to go. See you later, cuffed lady,” he says, standing and running out the door. He doesn’t shut it as he passes through. I try my wrist, attempting to pull myself free. Nothing works, I can’t move.
“Who opened the door?” a voice asks, startling me. Lollipop still in my mouth, I turn to him. He nods to himself like he doesn’t need me to answer, like he already knows.
He’s dressed much as I remember him. I thought I’d fabricated his looks in my head. He’s beautiful—heart-wrenchingly so. His beard is long, but not overgrown, his dark hair is pulled to the side. Dark clothes, only a white shirt.
“Please let me go,” I ask and his eyes shoot to mine. They’re so unique, different from a distance. It appears like he knows my darkest secrets, but I hope like hell no one does. No one needs to know those secrets. I don’t even want to remember them.
“You going to go and get high again, Rose?” That question startles me, I don’t use that name. Haven’t used it for a while now. The people that know me as her wouldn’t recognize me now.
“How do you know who I am?” He steps in, and he seems to do it in slow motion. Like he counts each step. My wrist scratches against the cuff that ties me to the bed, trying to pull myself away from him, away from what he brings—feelings.
“Your name isn’t Rose?” he asks, almost at my bed now.
I shake my head. “No, my name is Cass,” I lie. That’s my street name. The one the drug dealers know me as, the one the whores know me as.
“Don’t lie, Rose.” His voice is soft, but so hard. I don’t think a man like him would ever have to raise his voice, there’s so much authority there already.
“If I tell you the truth, will you let me go?” He ponders my question, not giving me an answer straight away. His eyes look me over. Watching me as if he knows all the answers already.
“Yes, the truth.” I nod my head. Dropping it, trying to think of a lie, but how far can I actually lie? He seems to know me. How much does he really know? How much can I lie about?
“Thinking of a lie won’t help.” He just stands there, he doesn’t seem to move. So when he speaks, it pulls me so my eyes met up with his.
“I was once known as Rose… before… before I was broken.” I hoped that was enough. I chance another look, but he’s waiting for more, he wants more.
“I started the drugs to numb the pain, numb it all out of my existence. A person can only break so much before they’re truly broken.” He steps forward. I thought at first his hands were coming to touch me and that he may hurt me, but he doesn’t touch me once. He reaches out and undoes the cuff, dropping it to the ground, and then walks back out.
I sit there, rubbing my wrist. Wondering why all of a sudden he would just let me walk away. Is it a trap? Where do I go? Where am I?
I immediately use the toilet, and when I’m finished, I step a foot out of the threshold that has held me captive for so long. I look up. There’s a stairwell, and up the stairs the door is open. The smell of food wafting down to me makes my stomach grumble loudly.
Across from my door is another door, leading to my freedom. I open the freedom door, contemplating my options. I could just leave, but where would I go? Who would want me? I don’t even know where I am. I look back up the stairs. Music is playing, it’s dark, sad music. I inch closer, the food and sound bringing me in.
I take the stairs slow, not sure what I’m doing. The thought of food pushes me faster, taking any rational thoughts from my brain.
He stands at the stove, still dressed as he was before. Boots still on his feet, he doesn’t look to me, doesn’t acknowledge me at all. Even when the floor creaks under my feet.
He continues cooking, the music loud. I stand there, watching what he’s doing. He’s so silent and strong, the way he holds himself is different to most men. It’s scary and exhilarating. His hand moves from the stove top, the music is turned down, and then he speaks, making me jump. Startling me so badly my heart races so hard that I have to place my hand on my chest to make sure it’s still there.
“Drinks are in the fridge,” he says, then turns the music back up. He knew I was there, but chose not to acknowledge me. Instead he scares the living shit out of me.
He’s standing right near it, so I elect to walk around the bench. He’s in the middle, the stove he cooks on has an island across from him. I choose to go around both so I can access the fridge. I open it and only see water, nothing else. I grab two bottles, placing one near the stove and then backing up, putting some distance between us. I chance a look around. The house is colorful. Words line every wall in graffiti. It makes me smile. I love graffiti. He catches me looking, now staring directly at me looking at his walls. I think I see a smirk, but it’s gone as quickly as it was there. He places a plate in front of me with chicken and vegetables lining the plate. My stomach rumbles. He hears and nods to the couch, picking up his own plate which contains the same food, but filled with more.
He carries his plate to the couch, sits down and flicks on the television. He doesn’t watch it, though, it’s just noise to fill the room, much like his music that’s switched off now.
I eat fast, chewing as quickly as possible to devour as much as I can. Soon my plate is empty, and the man next to me is still eating—half his plate still full. He slides it to me, standing and taking mine back to the kitchen. I eat his too.
“Where are we?” I ask, finishing my last bite. He places his plate in the sink, looking at me. He leans on the counter, crossing his legs in front of him.
“Lowood,” he replies, and I drop my plate. It shatters on the floor. He watches, his eyes taking in my reaction. I left this place years ago, never wanting to return, yet here I am in the house of a stranger.