Page 13 of In You
I'm desperate for a shower, but due to the cameras in the one bathroom he allows me to use, I don't dare clean myself without permission. I do my best to clean with toilet paper when I relieve my bladder, but at the threat of his retaliation, I take it no further. Picking little bits of dried toilet paper from between my legs is humiliating and causes my sensitive skin to itch even further.
Silently, he points to my toothbrush, keeping his hard gaze on mine through the mirror.
I reroute my thoughts, forcing myself to be grateful he's letting me brush my teeth. I do my business, then splash a little extra water on the vanity, and when I'm done I wipe everything down with the towel again. I squeeze it, feeling it's half-damp. My mind races, thinking maybe I might be brave enough to defy him anyway.
If he leaves me by myself in this bathroom, that is. He spits and rinses his mouth, watching silently as I brush my teeth.
"And the mint sauce?" he enquires when I spit, his voice hard. I reach for the mouthwash, but he moves it smoothly away and places it in the cabinet.
"I made extra, just like you like," I reply in a small voice, blinking back tears.
"I don't want any shit from you tonight. I have a new daddy for our little girl, and I won't have you fucking this up for me. Do you understand me?"
I blink.
"I said do you hear me?"
"Yes, sir," I whisper, lowering my head once more.
He grabs his hair product dismissively and I fight back tears of sadness as he makes me watch him groom and refresh himself.A pang of jealousy runs through me at the scent of his flagrantly warm skin. The smell of eucalyptus lingers in the air from his body wash, and as he squirts the product into his hand, I have a flashback from when I was a teenager and upset about my father not being present in my life.
As he runs his hands through his hair, I close my eyes, remembering one of my cherished self-care routines from my life from before.
Eighteen Years Ago
Pressing my cheek into my pillow I sniff, wiping the back of my hand across my eyes as the tears run free. The salt of it stings my lips that are so chapped from crying all week over not having anyone to take me to the daddy daughter dance this weekend. I've had to listen to my eleven-year old classmates and friends for the last two weeks brag excitedly about going dress shopping with their mothers, and how they've been practicing dancing with their fathers.
Some are even going out to eat at the fancy new Italian restaurant before the dance. One friend's father even hired a limo to bring them. Said he "wants her to know what it's like to be treated like a princess," and all the talk has done nothing but highlight that I'm raised by an only mother.
An only mother who was an only child. So I have no uncle. My grandfather is dead, and I have no one to take me to the dance.
"Tamryn, darling," Momma says in a sing-song voice, rapping twice on my bedroom door.
I flop over on my side with a heart-wrenching, heavy sigh, showing her the misery on my face.
"Oh,darling,"she says, her eyes turning sad as she walks into my bedroom and settles onto the purple comforter next to me. Caressing her hand over my temple, she lovingly brushes a lock of deep brown curly hair behind my ear. Grabbing my hand, she presses my knuckles to her lips. "I have a surprise for you!" she says with a little giggle. Her eyes, usually dark with exhaustion and worry, light up with happiness, affecting my own.
I give her a shaky smile as she wipes a tear from my cheek with her thumb. "Yeah? Another book?" I ask with excitement that chases away some of the sorrow. She'd been helping to grow my book collection of Edgar Allen Poe and Jane Austin.
My favorite poem is Annabelle Lee, about a woman who lives in a castle by the sea.
But instead of a book, momma surprised me with a spa trip that weekend. My very first one. She bought me a new pair of silk pajamas that were so unimaginably soft and decadent that I couldn't help but take that luxury with me into adulthood, buying all the silk nightgowns I could get my hands on.
We got a room at the spa for the night of the dance, and we spent the weekend getting mud baths, manicures, salt scrubs, facials, and massages.
For a brief moment I forgot all about the dance and it became a yearly thing for her and I, to take every holiday and special occasion and make it our very own.
But as the years went on I never forgot the lack of my father's presence, despite my mother's incessant attempts at distracting me at every which turn. Overcompensating and working herself to the bone to make sure my every need was taken care of. Working so hard that I became a latchkey kid at twelve so shecould work ten to twelve hour overnight shifts at a car factory almost an hour and a half drive away.
That's when the grief came full force. In those hours I spent alone.
That's when I began to search for a way to fill this love within my heart that was lacking and empty, devoid of my father's presence. That's how, seventeen years later, I became so easily a victim of the Captor.
My need for love was stronger than my common sense.
Present
Maneuvering the last three months with my dominant hand in a cast and sling has been horrendous, highlighted even more so now that I'm pinning the last curl up with a bobby pin. I check my teeth in the mirror, and scrub a rust colored front tooth with a square of toilet paper before blotting a little more of the lipstick away.
