Sienna
It’s so quiet here, it’s almost strange. If I stop to listen, it’s a sound itself, that silence. And it somehow calms me. Makes things almost manageable when I concentrate on it and that’s what I do. I sleep. I listen. I sleep.
And the next day when I wake up, I leave another message for Deirdre telling her I don’t feel well and it’s not a lie. I tell her I won’t be in for the next few days and just to close the shop and leave a note in the window.
By the time I have a shower the next night, he’s still not back.
I lock the bathroom door and strip off my clothes then turn my back to the mirror and look at myself. Look at the damage.
My butt and upper thighs are bruised, the welts of the belt distinct and tender to the touch. I don’t know how many strokes he gave me. I stopped counting after ten.
I switch on the shower and I don’t know if I’m weak from hunger or just sadness. It’s hard to even move, to get myself under the flow of water. All I want to do is sleep. I just want to sleep.
But I force myself to stand there, not shampooing or anything but standing under the water for a good five minutes. Afterwards, I dry off and I put on the same dress because it’s the thing near at hand.
I don’t want to put on new, nice clothes. What’s the point?
I’m hungry and I walk out of the bedroom. I’m quiet when I open the door. I listen for him. Listen for any noise.
But I’m alone.
And by the time I get to the kitchen, I’ve lost my appetite and I go back to bed.
I’m alone that day and the next and the one after that except for when the maid comes. I don’t let her clean the bedroom.
She’s hesitant to leave it and tries to tell me it’ll only take a few minutes, but I send her away anyway.
Each night without me having to call, a meal is delivered. I manage a few bites before leaving everything. The following morning, when I wake, the dinner tray is always gone and a fresh tray of breakfast is in its place. I think they bring lunch too. I heard the elevator once. But I sleep in the middle hours. Those are almost harder than the nights.
Every time I push the button to call the elevator, nothing happens. I know I need a key, and I guess they all have one. Everyone but me.
It’s not until four nights later when I’m standing at the balcony door trying to open it that I hear the elevator doors slide open behind me.
With a gasp, I turn to find Giovanni walk in, big as ever, impeccable in his suit, fierce in his expression.
“You need a special key to open it,” he says like it’s not weird that he’s been gone for four days. That he’s kept me locked up in here all that time.
I realize I have my back pressed up against the glass, my hands still behind me on the handle.
He steps inside and looks me over and I look down too.
I’m barefoot. Still wearing the same dress. There’s a big stain on the front of it. I don’t remember spilling anything. I guess I did, though.
I watch him as he walks around the furniture toward me. My heart is hammering against my chest and my throat has closed up and left me mute.
Why don’t I rage? Why don’t I fly at him? Hurt him like he hurt me. Scratch out his eyes or tear out skin. The scratches I managed to get in have mostly healed.
“Have you bathed?” he asks once he’s standing just a few feet from me.
I’m still glued to the same spot. Maybe I’ve backed up some more, even, because the heels of my feet are pressing against the cool glass.
“Have you bathed, Sienna?” he asks again.
He reaches out and I flinch. He stops, then moves slowly to touch my hair.
I touch it too. I don’t know what I look like. I haven’t looked in a mirror since he locked me up here.
And no, I haven’t bathed. Not since that first day when I stood under the water.
“They said the trays are mostly untouched,” he says.
I don’t know what he’s talking about.
“Sienna?” He peers down at me. “We had an agreement. Eating was part of that.”
The agreement.
His rules.
His to change at will.
“You said you wouldn’t hurt me.” Tears again. My words are jumbled, my closed throat suddenly too full of them. Too filled with words. “You said,” my shoulders wrack, sobs now. No soft tears.
Some women cry pretty. Not me. I’ve never been one of those women.
“You said,” I start again, having to suck in a breath. “You asked didn’t I know that? That you won’t hurt me?”
I see his face for one second. For one split second through the tears and humiliation and shame, I see his face and I think he’s sorry. I think he’s sad. Sad when he looks at me.
And then I feel his big hand at the back of my head. He’s so strong when he pulls me into his chest and wraps his other arm around my shoulders while he holds me like that and lets me sob. I’m ruining his shirt with tears and snot but I can’t seem to stop.
In the middle of this sobbing, I feel a hunger so deep it hurts.
A void so empty, it’s a black hole.
And when he lifts me up in his arms and carries me to the sofa, I let him. I don’t fight. Not when he sits down and cradles me on his lap and I just sob and sob and sob.
It feels good, him holding me like this. It feels good to be in his arms. Against his chest. He’s so strong. And when he’s gentle, he’s so gentle.
Then after all the sleeping of the last few days, somehow, I sleep again. When I’m spent and dried out, I sleep again and it’s dreamless. I’m weightless yet I feel him lift me and carry me and when he lays me down in his bed, I feel him lie behind me, and I sleep.