Don't Say a Word (Requested Trilogy - Part One) Read online

  The sky is so blue. I wonder if Mum and Dad can see the same patch of sky. I wonder if they’re worried about me, if they know I’m missing or if they think I’m at work or visiting friends. Have I been gone long enough for alarm? Was I unconscious for minutes? Hours? Days? Is my story splashed across the local news?

  The door opens and panic floods. I pointlessly search the room for somewhere to hide. There is nowhere but under the bed and he would find me in an instant.

  “Don’t say a word.”

  My eyes search out that one pebble in the concrete, the splash of red. I have an urge to cover my nakedness, cross my legs, cover my breasts with my hands, but I don’t. Somehow, I feel as though he would get satisfaction from that action.

  His feet are bare again as he pads across the floor. Worn threads of his jeans press beneath his feet and trail over the floor behind him. The scent of food wafts through the air, twisting my stomach. I didn’t realize I was hungry, but the intensity of it almost doubles me over in pain. I lift my eyes hesitantly. He’s carrying a tray which he places on the ground as he takes the only seat in the corner.

  “Come. Kneel.” He nods to an empty space in front of him.

  A war battles inside me. I don’t want to do as he says, I don’t want to succumb so easily, but what other choice do I have? I know he is capable of hurting me. I know the sting of the lash. And, although it isn’t that bad, I fear what else he might do.

  He watches as this battle rages. I know he can see it on my features even though I do my best to hide it. His head tilts to the side curiously as though he’s studying my reaction. Finally, I get to my feet and kneel before him. My stomach groans loudly.

  “You hungry?” Even though he asks it as a question, I know he doesn’t want an answer. He’s already made it clear he hasn’t stolen me for my words.

  “First we need to clean up those wrists.” He nods to where my hands are folded neatly in my lap. The submissive placement of them suddenly strikes me and I let them fall to my sides. His face twists into an expression I can’t read as he holds one hand out, palm up. I just look at it. He shoves it a little closer, urging me to place my hand in his.

  “I’m just going to clean off the blood.”

  His patience wears thin and he leans over to grab me, jerking my wrist toward him, examining the red welts and the broken skin. “You’re hurt.”

  No shit, I want to say. But the wounds are superficial. The skin is only broken because I twisted and turned in my restraints. I shake my head almost involuntarily as I correct myself internally. The skin is broken because he chained me.

  He looks up, the lines in his forehead bunching together. “I don’t want to hurt you, do you understand?” He peers into my eyes as if trying to ascertain my level of comprehension like one would a child. “And I won’t hurt you as long as you do exactly what you are told.” Gently, he wipes the dried blood from my skin, moving downwards to clean away the trails down my arms. “You are to be trained for pleasure. There will be no pain unless it is your choice to have it.” He wipes across the broken skin as if to emphasize his point.

  I flinch. But I don’t pull away. I don’t move.

  Trained for pleasure. The words echo around my head. Pleasure. A sick feeling creeps inside. I’ve heard about human trafficking, stealing women to train them as sex slaves. But it doesn’t happen to people like me.

  After he finishes cleaning the dried blood, he bends down and picks up the tray, balancing it on his knees. I want to reach out and snatch the food like some sort of untamed beast. Instead, I simply stare at it. It’s better than staring at him. Those eyes are unnerving.

  There is an array of food. Cheese. A hard-boiled egg. Salami. Crackers. Pickled onions. Even a little bowl of relish. It seems odd under the circumstances.

  He picks up one of the crackers and dips it into the relish. “Open.”

  I look up at him and hope he can see the hatred in my eyes.

  “Open.”

  When I don’t, he asks, “Not hungry?”

  I don’t move. I just kneel there, hands folded in my naked lap, nipples prickling with the cold.

  He puts the cracker down. “I know you’re hungry. Your stomach has been rather vocal about it.” He pushes the plate further out on his knee, tempting me. “There’s no point in starving yourself.”

  I leave my eyes locked on his. Unwavering. Unblinking. I want to know why he has me. I want to know when I can leave, if I can leave.

  “I can see the questions floating in your eyes. You’re doing well not to voice them.”

  Well? I’m doing well? I want to laugh. I want to scream. I want to spit in his face.

  He picks up the cracker again. “I’m not sure what point you are trying to prove by not eating.” He sighs. “Maybe I should explain a few things to stop this stupidity. Maybe you have illusions that you might escape this, that it is temporary. Maybe you think that someone will come to your rescue.”

  He leans forward, his face in mine. The scent of him invades me and I close my eyes for a moment before I start to tremble.

  “You are here to be trained. You are here to learn obedience. You no longer belong to yourself. This is your future. This is your home. Obey me and your punishments will be minimal. Disobey, and you will learn the consequences. There is a camera trained on you at all times. You cannot escape. There is no point in trying. Now,” he leans back again, lifting the cracker once more, “open.”

  And I do.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  MIA

  I try to sleep. I lie down on the mattress and stare at the ceiling but my eyes refuse to shut. The blink of the red light taunts me. Is he watching? Is it just him or are there more?

  The blanket offers little protection against the cold but at least it gives me some privacy to hide my nakedness. I wonder if he will take it from me when he realizes.

  After a while, I give up on sleep and walk across to the spot in the corner where the chains dangle from the ceiling. Lowering myself to the ground, the coldness of the wall seeps through the blanket and into the skin of my back, but I can see the stars from here. I wish I had studied them. I wish I knew what each speck of light meant. I know there is a cross, a pot or a belt. But none of them form patterns in my head. To me, it merely looks as though someone has scattered them, thrown them like one might throw seeds on the dirt.

  When I was little, I thought the night was God pulling a blanket across the sky. Tucking us in like children. The blanket had holes, tiny pinpricks that let the light of heaven shine through. I thought that was how he watched us at night. One of the stars would blink, temporarily lost to the darkness and that was when God peered through the crack. That was when He was watching.

  But none of the stars blink.

  I sing softly to myself, hoping the music will bring me comfort. But music and comfort have no place here. It sounds strange in the echo of the empty room. Too broken. Too woeful.

  I think back to the times I shyly sung at my local bar, urged on by Roxy. There was a part of me that enjoyed the spotlight but also a part that wanted to hide in the shadows. It all seems so pointless now. Nothing more than a dream that has no place in this stark reality.

  Silent tears slip down my cheeks. Thoughts of Mum and Dad come unbidden. They will be frantic by now. Not a day goes by when I don’t see them, or at least talk to them. We’re close like that. Being an only child living at home ensures it.

  I think of them and wonder what they are doing. I wonder if they are asleep or if the worry of my disappearance is keeping them awake. I wonder if Mum’s sitting in the bay window in her room, staring up at the same stars as I am.

  I keep my thoughts locked on them until sleep takes me.

  The brush of the door wakes me. The stars are gone and in their place the sun mocks me with its happiness. My captor looks at me in the corner and then over at the bed, but he doesn’t say anything about me still sitting on the cold floor.

  “Don’t say a word.” He s
its in the chair in the corner, one that is made of wood and metal and looks like it belongs beside a school desk.

  “Come. Kneel.”

  I stand slowly, taking my time to obey his orders, my bones complaining. He doesn’t chastise, just watches, nothing given away in his gaze. I lower myself before him, kneeling on the cold hard ground.

  “Drop the blanket.”

  I close my eyes as though it will give me the strength to obey. His hand grips the blanket and tugs it away roughly.

  “I don’t like to ask twice.”

  He tosses it onto the bed and my eyes follow it longingly. It is my protection. Already I feel cold without it.

  “When I come into the room and say those words, that command phrase, this is the position I expect you to take. I do not want to have to instruct you again. Do you understand?”

  I nod.

  “Good.” He rubs his hands along his jeans, leaning back into the chair, almost as though he is going to relax, as though we are friends about to engage in conversation. When he folds his arms across his chest, it causes the sleeve of his shirt to rise and allows black ink to peek out. “One question.”

  I blink, confused by his words.

  “One question,” he repeats with a sigh. “You can ask one question.”

  I open my mouth and then close it again, unable to find my voice. He lifts his brows. The furrowed lines deepen. Judging from the creases on his face, he must be at least ten years older than me. Maybe more. But the creases around his eyes aren’t as deep as the ones on his brow, as though his expression is more used to worry than happiness.

  He clears his throat. “Well?”

  “Why me?” The words just fall out. Not when, how, or who he is. Just, why me.

  “You’ve been requested.”

  “Requested?” I repeat and he nods. “By who?”

  Anger flashes in his eyes. “One question.” His voice is low with an undercurrent of cruelty. Getting to his feet, he looms over me for a moment before walking to the other side of the room. “Crawl.”

  “Excuse me?” I splutter before I can help myself.

  He pulls the lash from his back pocket and stalks toward me, flicking it to the ground so it falls from itself, growing in length. It is one of those retractable ones. One that can be hidden. One that can go unnoticed in the back pocket of his jeans. I scramble away, even though there is nowhere to go, but I’m filled with the need to escape. I cower in my corner, hugging my knees to my chest, hiding as much of myself as I can.

  He strikes and pain sears across my shins. A tear rolls down my cheek. The pain is bearable but the humiliation is not.

  “Look up,” he commands.

  My chin wobbles but I do as I’m told, lifting my eyes until they meet his cold ones. He lifts the lash again. I lift my chin. We stare, both daring the other to take it a step further, but his shoulders slump just a fraction and he walks back to the chair in the opposite corner. He sits down and places the lash on the floor beside him.

  “Crawl.” He crosses his arms and leans back, waiting.

  I found a dog once. I was only ten at the time and I knew my mother would never let me keep him, so I tried to hide him from her. I was convinced that if I could just keep him in my room, she would never know. But it was not a dog that was used to being trapped in a room. It was not a dog used to being indoors at all. So it scratched at the door, it whined and barked and I was so scared my mother would come home and find him that I yelled at the dog. I screamed and demanded that he stayed in the little bed I had made under mine. But the more I yelled, the more frantic I became, the less obedient he was. He darted away from me every time I approached, and I chased him around the room until I was breathless and frustrated. Then I just slumped against my bed and stared at him. The dog stared back, until finally, he crept across the floor, dragging his body as though he was crawling, and sat at my feet in submission. It wasn’t until I gave up that the dog let me win.

  Now I am the dog. But the man before me would easily outrun me. He would out-maneuver me. Overpower me.

  I study him again, trying to burn his features into my mind. His lips are full and soft, in direct contrast to the rest of his appearance. His eyes are sunken and hooded with darkness bruising the skin beneath. The shape of them turns down at the edges, marring him with melancholy even though at the moment they are spiked with curiosity.

  He is watching. Waiting. Interested to see my response to his command. His eyes shift to the lash on the floor and then back to me with a question. “The choice is yours,” he says finally.

  Choice. As if I have one. I have a choice between options but true choice was taken from me the moment I woke in this hellhole.

  I’m pretty sure I could sustain quite a few lashes before he would break me. In fact, I’m not sure if he could break me with the lash alone. And that scares me. If I don’t obey now, if I don’t bend to his will, what other methods will he choose?

  He is the one with the choice. Not me.

  Without removing my eyes from his, I rock forward onto my knees and drop my hands to the floor. I begin to crawl. He shifts in his seat, uncrossing his arms and resting his hands on his thighs, straightening his back.

  I keep crawling until my head nearly rests on his knee and then I rock back, kneeling before him again, my gaze still locked on his.

  His eyes narrow. He swallows. “Are you hungry?”

  I don’t say a word.

  He nods once and gets to his feet. I don’t shy away from his closeness. Instead, I raise my head and continue to stare at him.

  “Wait here.”

  I would go somewhere else in a heartbeat. But I can’t. I’m trapped here with whoever this man is, to be whatever I am requested to be.

  I don’t watch as he leaves. I look at the small red pebble caught among the shades of gray and wait for his return. He brings fruit this time. Pineapple, melon and grapes. He clearly doesn’t want me to starve.

  Unmoved from my position, he sits before me again, taking a knife from his pocket and slicing into a thick chunk of pineapple. The blade glistens, calling to me, but when I move my gaze back to him, he is watching, a slight look of amusement on his face at my obsession over the knife. He knows what I am thinking.

  “Open.”

  I obey.

  He feeds me, placing a juicy piece of pineapple into my mouth. Instantly, I salivate with the sweetness. Placing the knife on the ground, he reaches forward and rubs his thumb over my jawline before gripping my chin viciously and pulling my mouth open once the pineapple is gone. His thumb, rough and calloused, slides over my teeth, dipping into my mouth and pulling my jaw down further. The pad of his thumb is wet when it runs over my bottom lip roughly. He runs it back and forth, pushing the sag of my lip from side to side before cupping my cheek.

  I stay frozen, nothing moving apart from my eyes which remain locked on him, only moving when he does. He flicks his gaze between my eyes and where his hand drags over my skin, molding and bending it to his will. Exploring lower, I’m reminded of the sensitivity of my situation when his fingers wrap around my throat. Even though my heart is pounding, even though terror is flowing as blood through my veins, I keep my eyes locked on his. I don’t want to succumb. I don’t want to show my fear even though he has already seen it.

  The pressure on my neck increases and his eyebrow twitches as though challenging me to look away, challenging me to submit to his unspoken threat. I blink once. His hand moves back up until his fingers dig into the soft flesh under my jaw. He tilts my head from side to side as if examining me, and then his hand falls lower.

  I want to close my eyes. I want to escape his cold expression as the roughness of his hands causes my skin to prickle. He leans forward when he palms my breast, his eyes only inches from mine. Then his gaze follows the fall of his hand as he flicks his thumb over my nipple. It hardens. I want to curse my body for its betrayal, especially when his eyes move back to mine and a smirk teases the corners of his mouth. H
e leans back in the chair, slouching so his legs move further apart and rests his hands behind his head. One eyebrow flicks upward in amusement.

  “What’s that look supposed to mean?”

  For a moment I forget. For a moment I am concerned about his opinion of me, and it sickens me. I don’t let my fear show, though I’m sure he notices the gulp of air I swallow nervously as I wait to see if I will be punished for speaking.

  His gaze scans my body as though it’s the first time he’s noticed I am naked. He shakes his head. “Nothing.”

  My body is taut but inwardly I slump with relief.

  Reaching down, he plucks a grape and holds it before me. “Open.”

  He feeds me each piece of fruit until the plate is bare. Apart from the knife. It is large and sharp. If he’s brought it here to frighten me, it hasn’t worked. All I can think about is using it on him.

  Then he instructs me to stand and I obey without hesitation. There is some part of me that believes him when he says he doesn’t want to hurt me. But there is also a part of me that is terrified of what he’ll ask me to do. I push that part to the side. There is no point in listening to it. Not yet. But it scolds me for giving in so easily.

  Getting to his feet he takes my wrists in his hands and pulls them high over my head, replicating the position I was in when chained.

  “Stay.”

  My head nods before I can stop it.

  Both hands begin to slowly move down my body, tripping over my elbows, caressing my arms, trailing down my sides, over my hips, his head following suit as he lowers himself until he is on his knees before me.

  I swallow the fear lodged in my throat and do my best to think about something else. Anything else. But the feel of his hands on my skin allows for no escape. It grounds me to reality, forcing me to watch.