When I wake it's dark, I have no sense of time but my reality is clear.
I rub at my face and stretch out my heavy legs, I look at my hands. Bound together by thick leather cuffs, a length of chain secures me to the bed but its a length that offers more freedom..... I turn to follow the thick metal links and see enough to even move from the bed entirely...... not that my legs would cooperate in any possible escape plan.
Is this my captor's sick sense of humour?
Is he playing mind games with me?
As a trained psychiatrist, I am prepared for such things. I've studied serial killers much more devious and insane than him, more dangerous....... I hope, anyway.
I check the television at the end of the room, gone is Myles and my bedroom, back is the other room, the one with the girl who looks like me.
Chained like me.
Sleepy and drugged, I watch a figure walk across her room, my head head turns to check if anyone has entered my room here on instinct. I wave my hand but the girl on the bed lays still.
Not me, or not me right now.
The figure, a man.
Tall, well postured, short hair slicked back, big hands.
He knows to keep his face from the camera.
He moves towards the bed and she shrinks away from him, it doesn't save her from his knife, he slices down her sternum and I groan, she screams....... the sound has been left on.
My hands cover my stomach to check for injury but everything is as it should be.
She's not me, shes not me.
That means he has another room, another girl and hes going to kill us both.
The knowledge tightens my stomach, my chest, and makes it hard to breathe. If I could, my screams would match the girls. I would scream until somebody heard me, but I don't.
I can't.
My captor has chosen his drugs well.
I watch him place his hand on her body, using his hand he spreads the fresh blood over her torso so it covers her nakedness. Like a sick ritualistic body painting, he takes his time and clearly he enjoys himself.
In the back of his throat he makes a sound of pleasure.
Morbid curiosity has me watching him with professional intent.
What makes a human enjoy this particular stimulation?
I'd love to see what parts of his brain light up in moments like this.
What would a casual conversation look like with this man?
What would he discuss over breakfast?
More rationally I hope to never find out.
With dread I watch him take both her legs and secure them in antique stirrups used for childbirth, he places her in a vulnerable position.
She begs, pleads him but he pays her no mind.
I can't look away as much as I don't want to see what happens next.
My naieve mind goes straight to the obvious, I mean shes naked and positioned just right but sex isn't on his agenda.....
I knew vaguely it existed, in third world countries and in human trafficking circles, but I've never encountered a case of gential mutilation first hand.
I wish I was still that naieve.
I wish I've never heard screams like that.
It seems my fellow captive has not been offered the same repreive of sedatives like I have. I pray that mercy continues when its my turn in that horrible room.
Our captor steps back to admire his handiwork, that moan of pleasure once more. This time he undoes his belt, and holds himself tightly.
I can taste the bile rising in my throat, my hands lift to cover my mouth but still I can't look away. My tears fall freely for this woman I've never met, for the future me. For the fact I'm helpless to save us both.
