There’s only one exit out of the basement: the door at the top of the narrow staircase. My first escape attempt was in week one of my captivity. I spent an entire day sitting at the top of those stairs, my backside going numb on the hardwood, waiting for Jack. The second he opened the door, I fought him. He endeavoured to soothe me, but it was like trying to extinguish a forest fire with a teacup of water. I punched and shoved and kicked, but the stairs were too narrow, too restrictive, and he was too strong. He grabbed my wrists and roughly marched me into the belly of the basement so fast my toes didn’t touch the wood, then he pinned me face down on the ground and straddled me until I stopped struggling and shrieking like a wounded animal. He told me to calm down before I hurt myself. He told me I was the most important thing in the world. He told me he loved me, that he didn’t enjoy restraining me any more than I did, but even as he said it, his erection pressed against the small of my back.
I told him to go fuck himself. That I’d rather be dead than be anywhere near him ever again.
He was furious. He dragged me, kicking and biting, into the tiny bathroom and locked me inside for a day and a night to punish me. Or maybe he was trying to protect me from himself. He was livid that I’d hurled my words as hard as I’d hurled my fists.
The en-suite is no bigger than an airing cupboard. All I could do was stare at the four walls, bite my nails until they bled, listen to the maddening drip of the leaky shower. Sleep was impossible and could only be attempted sitting on the toilet seat; I didn’t get more than fifteen unbroken minutes at a time. Although I had access to water, he didn’t bring me any food. When he finally let me out, I was so grateful, I didn’t even disobey as he ordered me to undress in front of him and put on fresh clothes.
I’m clinging to the knowledge that Kathryn wants to sell Wisteria by December. It’s October now. Though I’m not sure I can wait any longer, I take comfort knowing when the cottage is sold, Jack will have to relocate me. Then I’ll be out of the basement, which opens up more possibilities to escape and if I can’t, wherever he takes me has to be more populated than Wisteria. More people can only mean more chances of discovery.
Now, I sit on the bed and wait for Jack to return with dinner. The first night he confined me to the basement, he set me up with a mini fridge and a microwave so while he’s away, I can feed myself. When he’s at Wisteria though, he likes us to eat together. I’m nervous. This evening I will explore my boundaries. See how far he’ll go to keep me happy. I started out small, asking for little things: cherry cola bottles and new hair ties, but now I want to push it just a little. I am laying the groundwork for bigger things. But this will be the biggest so far.
Even though I’m expecting him, when the basement door opens, I feel sick and my fight-or-flight instinct kicks in. Tonight I will attempt neither. I hear him close the door then lock it. His footsteps are musical as he descends the stairs. He’s in a good mood. Taking a breath, I try to extinguish the fear which ignites inside me.
A paper plate appears beneath my chin. ‘Milady,’ he chimes, setting it down in front of me and holding out my cutlery – a plastic spoon. I take it, careful not to touch him as I do. My food is already cut up. He’s not stupid enough to give me a plate I could break over his head, or cutlery made of anything more dangerous than cheap plastic.
As usual, he claims the armchair beside my bed.
‘Thank you,’ I say, focusing on his mouth. I can’t look at him, not right away, because I know as soon as I do, the memories from the hill will overwhelm me. I must ease myself into his visits, like dipping a toe into an ice bath; first there’s the shock, but once you lower yourself in, you eventually become numb to it.
‘Pasanda,’ he says. ‘Your favourite.’
‘Looks great.’ I hope that if I am calm, if I do not act like a wild animal, he will not treat me like one and maybe, just maybe, I will win a small battle, if not the war. Months ago, if someone told me I could hold polite conversation with the man who kidnapped and assaulted me, I’d have called you a liar. Truthfully though, you don’t know what you’re capable of until you’re tested. Raising my gaze a little farther, I settle on his nose. ‘You’re such a good cook.’ I smile, no longer the wilting flower; today I am daisy-fresh.
‘You almost never smile anymore.’
I bite my tongue against the ‘Why the fuck do you think that is?’ and say, ‘You seem in a good mood.’