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Chapter Eight

The sequence of events replayed in my mind as I fiddled with the lock to the chain bound to my ankle.

The angry man had hit me and then screamed at my pinned form on the floor for what felt like forever. I blocked him out, not listening to a word he said. There was nothing he could say to come back from that.

After his temper tantrum was over, he carried me to the bed I woke up in and restrained me once again. His scorching blaze of fury beamed on me the whole time. The door slammed dramatically behind him when he got tired of the silence between us.

I did not know how else I was supposed to react to him almost slapping my head off my shoulders. It hurt. I could not see myself, but I knew there was a nasty bruise on my tender cheekbone. If he expected comfort from me after the abuse, it would not happen.

Yes, I bit his lip, but he should not have been forcing himself on me in the first place. It dawned on me that the door being left unlocked was not an accident. It was a test, and I failed.

I wanted to ask him questions, but I was scared to not only ask them but to hear the answers.

Hours have passed since he left me by myself. As time continued to tick by, my hunger pains grew. I wanted something to eat so bad. The bones in my body felt weak, and my ribs poked out through the gown. It is untelling how long he has had me drugged and unconscious.

During my isolation, I mapped out the room. I sat on a queen-sized bed with a beautiful wooden frame that sat directly across from the door. The single nightstand beside the bed matched the oak wood, except the legs were screwed to the floor.

There were two windows on each side of me, bars on both of them. I could not fully see outside because matching mesh curtains blocked my view. The sun beamed on the white fabric, aiding the light above my head to brighten the room. I only knew there were bars because I could see their outline through the curtains as well as their shadows cast on the floor.

Two doors were in the room. One I tried to escape from and the other, on the wall to my right, is probably the bathroom. Three small vents were on the ceiling, slightly bigger than a brick.

That must be why it is so cold in here. The vent above my head kicked on, frigid air whizzing down directly on me.

I pulled my knees up to my chin, resting it on them. The light in the bedroom reflected from my pale shins. Ugly deep black bruises with hints of purple were on my legs, reminding me of the spotted fur on a Dalmatian. My legs were hairless.

He shaved my legs.

I raised my elbows above my head. Apparently got my arms and armpits too.

I know he shaved them because I have not shaved in at least a month. It is not like I have been getting any action lately, and it has been cold outside every day. I could not afford a razor. It was difficult enough to scrape up the money to buy shampoo and body wash. Not to mention, I have never shaved my arms before.

I froze as a thought crept up on me.

The skirt of the gown lifted. A relieved sigh escaped me when I discovered that it looked exactly the same down there.

In that area, I trimmed ever so often, but I hated shaving. It always triggered an awful razor burn that would leave me sensitive for days.

A lavender scent wafted to my nose from my skin as a reminder that he cleaned me. I had not noticed before, but my hair was held in a loose braid that cascaded down my back. I felt my scalp with my fingertips, finding that it was clean as well.

I scrunched up my nose in disgust at the idea of him seeing me naked, scrubbing dirt from the parts of my body he was not supposed to see.

Speaking of the devil, the door creaked open behind him as he waltzed in with a green tray in his hand.