Page 85 of Caged
He drops his duffle bag to the floor and wrinkles his nose. I can only imagine the stench in this room. If I were a braver person, I’d wear it with pride, but I’m not.
I’m hungry and I’m weak.
I’ll get food, then I’ll escape.
He saunters over to the bed, crossing his arms in disdain when he stops.
“Well?” he asks. “What do you have to say for yourself?”
“I’m sorry,” I squeak, intentionally keeping my voice soft and meek. “You were right.”
His lips quirk in satisfaction.
“Did you miss me?”
I nod, averting my eyes in submission. I know it’s what he wants to see, and I know it’s the part I need to play if I have any hope of getting the fuck away from him.
He kneels, leaning forward to run his hands up my thighs. This is the first time his touch has felt foreign and unwanted. I allow it, willing my mind to go numb, willing my heart not to feel.
“Is my puppy hungry?”
I nod again as my mind fights to hold back tears that desperately want to fall. I don’t want him to know the depth of my hunger, or to understand food is a weapon he can wield.
“When is the last time you showered?” he sneers, curling his lip in disgust. “You look like shit.”
“Yesterday,” I mumble.
“Take a shower and put some fucking makeup on. I’m not taking you to get food until you look presentable. I’ve got things to unpack in my trunk. You’ve got…” He looks at his watch, contemplating how generous he wants to be with his time. “Twenty minutes. When I’m back, I expect you to be ready.”
I hold my breath as Kieren leaves, locking me inside once more. My fingers shake as tears plop onto the open pages of my textbook, my eyes glaze over, and my mind short-circuits.
A monologue plays in my head like an involuntary reaction, repeating over and over to do whatshewants. I can’t make it stop, so I squeeze my eyes closed, hearing my own voice narrate as if it’s a movie.
Play along. Play the good girl.
You know how to do this, Monroe.
Pretend everything is fine. Get the food.
If she thinks you are angry, she will punish you.
Do what she wants.
Be a good girl.
Get the food.
But is this a memory, or have I become clinically insane? I hear the textbook thump closed before I realize I had moved my hands. Crawling off the bed, I peer out the window. The trunk of Kieren’s car is open as he leans inside, reaching for something. I squint in curiosity, but as he straightens, there is no mistaking the four-gallon jugs he wrestles free.
Bleach.
38
MONROE
Five Months Prior to Present Day,
Early April, Junior Year,
