THE HARBOUR

The Only Living Girl In The Attic

She paces slowly about the drab room, the chain around her ankle rattles with every step, she bends down and messages the area— cursing with each press.

She stares at the surrounding walls in annoyance. It is difficult to tell what time it is due to the isolated lighting and the lack of windows or vents. There's only a craw space next to an air conditioner— too high for her to reach. The room itself is small, approximately the size of an apartment bathroom, measuring five meters each side.

On one end of the room is a mattress with a small lamp next to it. There's a mini fridge stocked with bottles of water and cheese slices in a corner a few paces away from the mattress. She can barely reach the fridge when stretching her whole body while laying down. She curses internally at the inconvenient length of the chain, which makes it difficult for her to do anything. Including properly accessing the revolving bucket he'd so graciously given her to use as a bathroom. The chain is not long enough to get even halfway to the door.

Aside from the cheese, which she has to admit is excellent cheese. He brings her food once or twice a day. Usually once, she wonders if he is trying to systematically starve her. If he is, it would be a painfully slow death.

The door handle rattles and her heart rate quickens. She stops her pacing and stands still looking at the door in anticipation and mild excitement. She hates that he has unconsciously conditioned her to eagerly await his arrival. It's the food you want, Marcella. She reminds herself. The door opens and there he is, she can barely see he is in uniform and carrying a small tray of food and a glass of wine.

He eyes her warily as he places the tray on the floor and pushes it towards her with the cue stick he keeps right outside the door. She can't help but be amused, last time he'd gotten too close she'd attacked him and gotten a good scratch in— that was before he cut her nails in her sleep. The food had gone everywhere.

Now he brings it to her as if she were a psychotic patient with unpredictable behaviour. Frankly, it's the only thing that brings her satisfaction. The fact that he is apprehensive around her. The tray reaches her feet, and she twitches towards him, and he flinches slightly, this time she laughs aloud.

“Afraid of little ole me?” She taunts. He straightens himself and leans against the wall, while she sits down abruptly and begins to eat her food. It's salmon and mashed potatoes. Despite her disdain for him, she has to admit; the son of a bitch is a skilled cook. Eating quickly with her hands, she realises he hadn't brought her any utensils, perhaps out of fear she might use them as weapons. She smirks to herself and peers at him through her eyelashes, noticing his face is set in a deep unflattering frown.

After finishing her food, she forcefully pushes the tray over to him, making the plate and glass rattle and her ears ring. He looks at her with astonishment, surprised by her lack of manners. She is deliberately provoking him, but she doubts he is aware of that. He most likely thinks that's her nature. What an idiot. She clicks her tongue loudly in annoyance.

As he opens the door to leave with the tray in hand, she asks, “What's your endgame?” He pauses with his hand on the handle, but doesn't respond or turn to face her. “I mean, you must have some plan, right? You do know what you're doing, right?” He remains silent. “Are you just going to keep me here forever, like some pet?” He sighs heavily and opens the door. “Hey, don't leave!” she shouts as he walks out. “I'm talking to you!” she yells as she hears the lock turning and keys jangling. “At least change the bucket, you piece of shit!” she yells at the top of her lungs, knowing it's futile. She lets out an infuriated grunt and throws the lamp at the door.