Page 114 of Depravity

Because I know this handwriting. I know exactly whose it is.

And it absolutely is not her mother’s.

It’s evening. The night chill is already starting to set in.

Does Conrad know I’m gone yet? Will he be looking for me?

I’m sitting in my chair, staring out at a scene that looks so unfamiliar. There’s a great formal garden with box hedging and roses all pruned and nicely managed while the setting sun illuminates a lake, making it look otherworldly.

My head hurts. My eyes feel heavy.

I know I was bad, that I upset them, but I don’t understand it.

I’ve been cooped up in this room by myself like they needed to tuck me away and pretend I didn’t exist.

I’m hungry. It feels like breakfast was so long ago now, and I know I didn’t have anything for lunch.

As if they can read my thoughts the door opens and Ingrid walks in, giving me a tight smile and then she starts setting up a table. Three places. Three glasses. All of it neatly arranged.

I watch in silence. It feels like every time I speak, I make her angry and I don’t want her to hit me again.

She turns to look at me again and runs her eyes over my dress like it’s no longer appropriate.

“Do you need to change?” She asks.

I shake my head.

She flares her nostrils. “Do you need to use the toilet?”

Again, I shake my head. I was able to manoeuvre the chair in, to hike my dress up, to sort myself out. It took some doing, but at least I didn’t have an audience.

“Fine then, they’ll be here in a few minutes.”

“Who?” I ask. Is it Conrad, has he arrived?

She must see something in my face because she scowls more. “Who do you think?” She snaps before walking out.

I stare at the door, at where she all but slams it behind her. Is it locked? I never thought to try. But why would they lock me in?

Conrad used to tie me up to a bed.

I know that’s true; I can see the evidence of it around my wrists. I can see where the rope bit into my skin and made it red raw.

My hands grab the metal handles, and I spin the wheels, moving quickly. My heart slams into my chest unsure if I want to know what the answer to this is, but as my hand reaches the doorknob it swings open.

I cry in shock, almost toppling the chair.

My father frowns, staring at me for a moment. “What are you doing?” He asks, not sounding pissed off. Sounding curious. Like he’s caught me being cheeky rather than breaking the rules.

“I just wanted to see…” I mumble.

“See what?”

“If I was locked in.”

His eyebrows raise. “Why would we lock you in?”

I shrug. My cheeks flame, and it feels like you could fry an egg on my face.

---