The echo of his footsteps could drive you mad in the dark, if you weren’t already there. But the sound of a doorknob being manipulated is worse than a blade slicing through the air.
When a lock rattles and it isn’t mine, I exhale my hurried breath, realizing how desperate I am for air, even this dank air.
The girl in that cell, I think the redhead, starts to sob. She’s newer, like me. She still cries every time, like me.
“Princess, are ya so happy to see me rescue ya from the evil prison that ya weep?” he asks in his full Irish accent, no longer hiding it from us. He closes and locks the door behind him until he gets his needle and injects her with the tranquilizer.
She weeps louder, stuttering the thing we are to say: “M-m-my p-p-prince, y-y-you f-f-found me.”
“Aye, I found ya, and now I will free ya from this hell, my love.” I grimace, knowing exactly what is happening at this point. He’s kissing her cheeks and dragging his hands up her arms.
I know he scoops her up, carrying her weak and slowly relaxing body from the cell and up a set of stairs to the washroom. He carries her up and pours a bath, cleaning her and singing his fucking songs. The words of one still haunt me.
Listen, listen to the sound that bullets make of blood and bone.
Those words are haunting me, and yet I don’t know where I have ever heard them.
Then he takes her, trembling and cold, to the bedroom off the bathroom. When he gets her there he will make sweet passionate love to her, slow and soft. He will make her orgasm again and again, even if she doesn’t want to. She can’t help it. Her body will be relaxed and calm, and only her mind will be screaming as he thrusts in and out, rocking and swaying until she’s certain he knows every inch of her body and soul.
The whole event will be nothing at all like what he did with me when we were in the real world. It will involve cuddling and a condom, and him telling her he’s going to protect her and keep her safe from evil in the world. Then he will bathe her again, singing and loving and rubbing places that are sore and overstimulated. He will tell her that he will take her back to his kingdom and marry her. They will live happily ever after. It’s a fantasy like no other, and it will last the whole afternoon.
Until he realizes he must put her back into the cell, but he will be back. And she should never doubt his love, because it is eternal.
Eventually he will close the door, leaving her there. She’ll be sore from hours of sex, not to mention exhausted and confused from the tranquilizer.
Jane and I clasp each other’s fingertips in the dark, the only part of us that can really touch through the thin gap. We always do it when a cell opens that doesn’t belong to either of us, we sigh simultaneously with relief. He has chosen someone besides one of us, which means we will enjoy another day of safety and peace.
When he closes the door to the stairs, carrying the girl away from us, the cells reanimate as girls begin to breathe and softly whisper to one another. Jane’s breath is upon my face when she speaks softly: “Just once I want one of us to fight back, to attack him and free the rest of us.”
I nod, thinking how it would all be impossible. “That bathroom and bedroom aren’t above the ground. I don’t know that it would be easy to find your way out of here. And the daylight would blind you upon leaving. We’ve gotten so used to the dark. He would have the advantage. You would have to attack and lock him in the cell, but before the fucking needle.” I need to stop cussing so much.
She sighs. “But if you could knock him out, you might stand a chance of escaping—and freeing everyone else. What’s in that room that could knock him out?”
I shake my head. “I don’t know. I’ve only been in it a few times. The bathroom has that massive claw-foot tub and the toilet and the sink. I don’t think I’ve ever seen anything but a towel and some soap, the French lavender soap. If I ever smell it after we get out of here, I’ll kill the person holding it.”
She chuckles softly into the crack. “You know it. Same for basements. I will never own a house with a basement. I want a house made of glass so I can see the whole world around me, every nook and cranny, from my window. There will be no shadows.”
We sit in the corner, holding hands and waiting for the sound of her cries when he puts her back into the cell. She cries a lot, that redhead. Her name is Jenny, Jenny Rutledge, and she cries more than any girl here. But for some sick reason, he likes it. He likes it when we cry.
Her screams wake me up and I think Jane too. She jumps and grips my hand. The door slams, and the redhead screams violently. I didn’t even realize I’d fallen asleep, but I clearly have, and the afternoon has gone by. He has entertained himself, and now the redhead is back in her cell and screaming.