There’s a lump of cement in my gut as they climb into their car. I could still shout for help. I still could. But I don’t. I watch them drive away, honking their horn goodbye as they go.
Grinning, Jack gets into the car. It starts without protest. ‘You passed with flying colours, Fray,’ he tells me, excitement lacing his voice. We pull away. ‘Flying colours.’
Chapter Forty-Seven
159 Days Missing
Elodie Fray
I expected Jack to do the usual: take away the TV or lock me in the bathroom or tie me to the bed as punishment for trying to escape again. He didn’t. He restocked the mini-fridge and said he’d be back soon. That was five days ago. I’m sitting cross-legged on the floor in front of the microwave, watching the mac ’n’ cheese ready meal spin in slow circles beneath an anaemic glow.
I’ve a new hatred now, and it doesn’t ebb or flow, it sits with me all day, every day. It consumes me, eating up my stomach like a ravenous parasite. This hatred isn’t just reserved for Jack, it’s for me too. I hate that I let him turn me against my family, praying on my insecurity that they didn’t love me like they love Ada. I hate that I let him manipulate me into agreeing to come to Wisteria and walking into a situation weaved from every woman’s nightmare. I hate that I had sex with him. I hate that I’ve failed every single escape attempt. I hate that I turned a gun on him and pulled the trigger. It’s true that you don’t know what you’re capable of until you’re pushed. I remember nights spent with Katie, Olivia and Ivy in our mildew-riddled student house which always smelled faintly of Pot Noodles, our laptops and coursework discarded in favour of our favourite procrastination game ‘Would you Rather’。
‘Would you rather lose your hearing or lose your sight?’
‘Would you rather burn to death or drown?’
‘Would you rather only be able to whisper or only be able to shout?’
‘Would you rather shoot your oldest friend to escape captivity or remain captive forever?’
If you’d asked me that in the comfort of my student home, where doors were things you could move through freely and a walk to the shops was a severely underappreciated privilege, I’d have picked the latter. Every. Time. But how can you ever truly know yourself, know what you’re willing to do, until it’s a reality and not a rhetorical?
Seefer meows loudly and thrusts her head into my lap, purring before I’ve even touched her. I rub beneath her chin and feel love for this cat pour out of me, breaking through the surface of my hatred. She has a tray in the corner of the room and I’m down to the last of the grey pebbly litter. When Jack’s gone this long, I’m grateful he provides sealable bags for me to clean it out with until he comes back and takes them away. Seefer is restless. She can’t manage more than a week without being let out of the basement; I feel guilty. I give her one too many treats every day to make up for it.
Now, she meows loudly and rolls onto her back. This is a trick. She looks like she wants a belly rub but the second I go in for one, she’ll attack my hand.
‘I’m sorry you’re stuck down here too,’ I whisper, tickling her furry little cheek.
Bored of my affection, Seefer struts past her cat bed and leaps effortlessly onto mine before curling up like a little pretzel in her favourite spot.
I go back to staring at the microwave, focusing on the small crack in its glass front. I remember the rage and power I felt when I destroyed this room. My arms shook with the effort of lifting the microwave up and smashing it down. It didn’t break though. I can’t imagine having energy like that ever again. Jack replaced the chest of drawers with a shelving unit complete with soft storage cubes. Minimal nails. Minimal risk. If Ada were in my place, I bet she’d pull off the perfect escape first time. These thoughts used to be chased with a shot of bitterness, but not this time. Instead, I feel that little-sister longing to learn from her.
The microwave pings. I retrieve my meal and take one of the disposable plastic spoons Jack has provided. The food is beige and smells like cheesy feet. I think maybe Jack leaves me with terrible ready meals so I am mouth-wateringly keen whenever he comes back to Wisteria and cooks for us. I’ve barely forced a forkful of mush past my lips when the basement door opens. Jack is humming. He’s in a good mood. Seefer hops down from the bed and dashes up the stairs and out through the open door. Jack is definitely in a good mood because he doesn’t call her a fleabag as she passes. Instead, he continues humming as he locks the door behind her and bounces down the stairs. These days, he pauses, just for a second, to check I haven’t littered them with sharp foot-piercing objects.