Page 36 of In You
I stare at the wall in front of us. The wall that has an African mask, and wish to God I could put it on and pretend to be someone else, because I'm not a victim. Never have been one until now.
I can't believe this is happening to me.
He grabs the cup, fills it from the spigot in the refrigerator, and places it in front of me. My jaw clenches when I see the small cupis only a third of the way full. My eyes burn, as does my throat, because it's not enough. We both know it. I go to reach for it anyways, but he slaps the back of my hand like he would a child.
Hurt, I pull my hand back into my lap, still staring blankly at the water.
"Now, Tamryn, what do you say when we have guests?"
My mother would be heartbroken to know that I'm being subjected to this kind of treatment.
My eyes slide to the door, and I stare for a second. Longing for freedom, praying for someone to save me, wishing that my mom or someone would come through the door and take me from here back to my old life where maybe I didn't have it all, and I didn't have a dad, but I had safety, security, and contentment. But of course, no one comes.
Why would they?
As my eyes go back to his; cold, lacking warmth and compassion, I just know I'll be able to be saved from him. It's just not right now. Not yet. I stare, my mind emptying, my soul dying.
"Tamryn?" he says expectantly.
My lips tremble. "My name is Camilla."
Calvin pauses slightly, tilting his head to look at me. Eerie silence meets uncomfortable tension as I wait for his hand to slap me across my face again. But a hit never comes.
"Camilla,"he says softly, rapping his fingers in a light rhythm on his thigh. "What do we say when we have guests?"
My eyes drift from his hands to his. "How may I serve you?"
He nods once, with a proud glint in his eye. "Perfect, Tam-"He cuts himself off, giving me an almost serene smile."Camilla…You may drink your water now."
I snatch the glass of water up, the contents sloshing as I bring it to my lips with a breathy whimper.
It's been over two days that I haven't had a drink. Two days he's followed me into the bathroom to make sure I don't sneak a drop even out of the sink or shower tap. He's covered my mouth with duct tape during showers so I couldn't even stick my tongue out for relief. Cameras have been erected all over the house with the threat of retaliation should I disobey him. I gulp greedily. The water goes down, cold, refreshing, but I'm so thirsty it's barely enough to quench my thirst.
I gasp, bringing my hand to my lips and rubbing. My eyes going back to his, begging for compassion. "Please, sir. It wasn’t enough. Can I have some more?"
Leaning forward, he brushes a strand of hair behind my ear, the briefest touch of his fingers against my skin. "No," he says quietly. "You may not."
Then his touch leaves me.
Present
Words like identity integration, eye movement desensitization and processing, and talk therapy are thrown around between Dr. Richardson and my Savior, however, all I can do is just stare. Not be a part of what they're talking about.
A throat clears, bringing my attention to Dr. Richardson. "I verified with Ms. Sarah Johnson that she can get you in as soon as next week. She's going to put you on a two sessions a week schedule, and you will do your own intake with her." My eyesslide from his to the window beyond, seeing that the sun is beginning to set.
I sniff, smelling what seems to be maybe meatloaf, but I don't remember when it was made.
I don't remember all the questions I was just asked. My brain hurts and I feel like I'm trying to operate within a deep fog.
Looking over at my savior, who's sitting on the couch opposite me with that increasingly familiar stoic stare, just assessing me calmly like he's waiting for me, I hold my hand out, feeling my face break. I'm so tired. Tired of wondering what's going to happen to me, if I'm going to be hurt, if I can make it to the next hour or not. All I know right now is, this man saved me, and ever since he saved me, he's only been trying to help me.
I feel my chin quiver as I reach for him, and though there's a slight pause in Dr. Richardson's speech, I'm no longer listening.
I want him to leave. I'm tired.
I implore my savior with my eyes as he gets up to slowly walk around the table between us, holding his hand out to me letting me know he's coming. Fear meets relief, and my fingers tremble when he presses them to mine in just thebriefestoftouches. He stands patiently waiting as I shift uncomfortably to the very end of the couch and then shove the blanket completely in my lap and in between us.
He lowers himself to the other end, with one cushion in between us, and I'm so utterly thankful he's thoughtful enough to give me space.
