Page 17 of Ruin

I swallow, the metal biting angrily into my throat. It clinks the chain, and his attention so apt on me, his head slowly cocks, one hard blink and he pushes up to stand. Looking down at me as he approaches. His chin never dipping, only those eyes.

“I know you are watching me,” he rasps, eerie and low, if I weren’t already cold, I would be now, the way the sound penetrates through to my bones.

The hairs along my body stand on end, his attention feels obscene, too much, too intense, he doesn’t look at my naked body like it is anything to be desired or disgusted by. Not like my other owners. In fact, I haven’t seen his gaze drop lower than my face anytime I have been conscious.

The back of my hand itches, dried blood where the needle tore out. I think of my hand on his ankle and a blush burns beneath my skin. I don’t move, or open my eyes further, and I swear I see his lips twitch into something reminiscent of a smile.

He turns from me, returning to his bench, retrieving a blue plastic bucket, it swings lightly in his fist, the white handle squeezed tight. His other arm working atop the wooden table, doing something I can’t see. And then he comes back to me, crouching low in front of my bars, his head cocked again, he flicks his gaze down the length of my body. Something I am unable to feel shy about anymore, regardless of the state I’m in.

Water sloshes as he places the bucket down onto the floor, bubbles spilling over the rim and running down the sides. Slowly, he reaches through the bars, the flinch in me is delayed as, one by one, his fingers curl around one of my wrists pulled up beneath my chin. He looks at me then, my dry eyes opening more, crust and gunk clumping my lashes.

“Can you hear me?” he suddenly asks, that same low, gruff crack to his words, like he doesn’t use his voice often, can’t, something is wrong with it.

I don’t answer, unsure what I would even respond, if my voice even works anymore. I haven’t used it in so long. My last owner didn’t like to hear anything but my screams. Even then, I was not to make a noise. The punishment for making sound was always so much worse than anything else.

He releases my wrist, shifting onto his knees, he blows out a breath, and I stare up at him now, unable to retract my attention from him. Entranced, I watch him, his eyes are flicked to the ceiling above, his lips moving with unspoken words. I watch him fascinated, the way he cracks his neck, stretching it one way and then the other. I catch sight of light scars across his tattooed throat, my own feeling extra tight. I wish I could fit a finger beneath the heavy metal, I don’t know how long I have been wearing it.

The man looks at me,finally, and I feel something flutter in my tummy. And then he does something with his hands, moving his fingers to his palms, too quickly for me to really process what it is he’s trying to show me. And then… then he does it again, slower, his large, tattooed hands glide over one another, his fingers moving and forming shapes. He’s slow and careful, thick fingers wrapped in thorns, the ends of the vines stopping at his nail beds. He drops his hands, my eyes flicking up.

“You don’t sign,” he growls, blowing out a frustrated breath as though that took something monumental out of him, to try it with me.

My body starts to tremble, knowing what this could mean. I am so used to punishments; I shouldn’t feel fear anymore. But it’s the unknown, I think. I don’t know how this new man works, what triggers him, what will set him off, what he will enjoy doing to me when I am corrected. And I have been in this room for days at least, staring at the wall opposite one end of my cage. Knives, hammers, saws, guns, things I can’t even begin to try and name. I know what happens in places like this. Industrial drainage set in the centre of the easy wash concrete flooring.

“Stop doing that,” he seethes, his hands wrapping around the bars. He brings his face close, “Stop shaking.”

I swallow, my throat grating against the metal, my skin raw beneath, but I don’t wince. I stare up at the man, his fingers pushing through his white hair. His square jaw is sharp, pale pink lips full, his white lashes brush over his high cheekbones every time he blinks. He’s pretty.

Once again, my eyes on his face so I don’t focus on what he’s doing with his hands, he reaches through my bars, something to confine me as much as they feel like, some days, they protect me. I study the small lines around his mouth, the top of his lips, the few at the corners of his eyes. I breathe him in as his skin touches mine, fresh and clean, something metallic, a little smoky.

His fingers lock around my left wrist. Roughly, he pulls my hand towards him, my knuckles knocking the thick metal bars as he yanks me closer. My body slides across the steel base as he pulls my arm straight, pain bolting through my shoulder as he does. A cracked cry leaves my lips, white spotting my vision. My breath comes harder, teeth squeaking as I bite down on my molars.

Ignoring the sound I made, he rolls his green eyes up the length of my arm, his face blank, expressionless, analysing. And then he drops his gaze back to my hand in his. A small crease forming between his pale brows. With his other hand, he dunks it into the soapy water, swirling it around, he brings it out of the bubbles, squeezing a yellow rag, and then he swipes the warm cloth over my cold, numb knuckles.

He doesn’t speak anymore words. Running the warm wetness over my skin, each finger, nail, the webbing between. He repeatedly dips the cloth into the bucket of water. I watch his hand move, fingers curling, veins stark beneath his skin, ridging the back of his hand. He works his way up my forearm, to the ditch of my elbow. His hands inside my prison now, his skin so white beneath his dark tattoos, roses and swallow birds made of feather and bone.

I ignore the pain in my shoulder, collarbone, the tension in my neck. I stay limp, let him clean my skin. Even though it feels good, it hurts, every inch of me revealed is one more visible scar, bruise or badly healing wound. He doesn’t seem to focus on any of them, the backs of my eyes burning with embarrassment as he pulls me closer still, my neck chain clinking against the bars. I can’t smell myself, but I know I smell, I don’t remember having access to a bathroom. No toilet, no shower. Nothing humane. Silently, he releases my other arm, turns me carefully more towards him, my aching arm re-clutched to my chest.

He leaves again. The release of my skin icy where his touch dissolves. I drop my gaze, stare at the jut of my ankle bone, leg bent and tucked beneath me. I don’t look up again until he comes back. The door closing, automatic locks thunking into place. He returns to the same position, what smells like a fresh bucket of water, steam wafts across the top of the foamy white, and he resettles before me.

Using both hands, he cups my cheeks, thumb gliding over a scar beneath my eye. He releases one side, retrieving the wet cloth, he swipes it over my face, cheeks, nose, his thumb hooked beneath the warm cloth, he cleans my eyes. Unclumps my lashes. The warmth glides beneath my chin, little dribbles of soapy water slicking beneath my shackle. I wince, and he pulls away, dumping the cloth back in the water.

Manipulating my legs, pulling the matchstick limbs out through the bars, he starts at my toes, working his way up my calves, one leg at a time. His rough hands glide over my bumpy skin, long patchy hair, burn marks, slash lines. Whites and pinks and reds. A mixture of healing and scars. Evidence of things done to me that I couldn’t fight. Wouldn’t. I wonder why I didn’t just want to die. Why I don’t.

It feels cruel, the pressure in the front of my skull, the intense pounding in my temples, burn in the back of my dry eyes.

Why can’t I want to die?

“Baby Bird.”

My belly flutters like bats in a cave, hearing those rasped words.

Identifying.

Making me something.

A gift of self.

Warmth pushes through my frozen veins. Flicking my gaze up, the man watches me. My bent knee in his curled hand, fingers pinching lightly at the sides of my kneecap, the back of it resting in his damp palm. His chin is dipped low, gaze upon me from beneath white lashes, the green like oozing slime, dazzling like emeralds. Such a mixture of gentle terror. I swallow, keeping my eyes on his, his head cocked. He glances back to my knee in his hand.

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