Fragments (24 page)

“No.”

The sound of
his voice went off beside her like a bomb. He hadn’t shouted,
hadn’t spoken at more than a whisper, but it ruptured her illusion
of safety, of the possibility of escape. She stared at him.

“Do not leave
the bed.”

She saw the
lips move, heard the words, but still he was so completely empty,
so completely dead. For a moment she doubted herself, doubted he
had spoken. What if it was her? What if she was making him up, had
imagined his presence, never mind his voice? The thought scalded
her, stole away what little composure she had. Without thought of
it, she was up and off, heading for the doorway. Away, away, that
was all she could think of. Away.

She tripped on
the sheet that was wrapped round her, fell heavily onto the cool
floor, found almost no purchase in it. A scrabble, a frantic
scrabble, as she desperately tried to make the doorway just ahead
of her. She kicked the sheet away, bare feet slipping and sliding
on the surface of the bedroom. The darkness was really just ahead
of her, the doorway was there, just there. With a push, she was
over the threshold, scrabbling round on all fours, scooting
through. The darkness was complete, she could see nothing once
more, feel only the cold slickness underneath her. She tried to
stand, found the door to her right, found the door handle. On her
knees she rose and slammed the door shut, shutting out the light,
shutting out Him. The silence crashed around her again, the
darkness. The sound of rasping laboured breath. She put her
thoughts away from her, to one side, and concentrated on the door.
A door handle, maybe there was a lock, a key? In the dark she
searched, her hands sodden with sweat once more. Nothing, she found
nothing. Substituting her body for a lock, she turned around,
slamming her back against the door, grimacing at the pain it
caused. Sliding down, ignoring more pain, she landed on her bum and
pushed. All she was she put into pushing against that door, feet
barely gaining hold on the cold floor. She’d gone from a sheet
between them, to a solid wooden door: she wasn’t giving it up. As
she pushed, feet endlessly slipping on the floor, a thought did
occur to her. It was the little voice again, the tiny echo
somewhere in the back of her mind, the one that kept making
suggestions, good, bad, fucking dangerous. You’re not being chased,
it said. Nothing has come after you. She listened to it despite
herself. All she wanted to do was concentrate on that wonderful
solid door, and relish that she couldn’t see Him. No, that he
couldn’t see her! She was this side, he was the other: it was going
to stay that way. But the voice still niggled, still murmured,
still sought to betray her jubilation. There was no one following
her. There was no weight being pushed against the door. Nothing. It
sank in, slowly, as the darkness around her did. She’d made the
door because she hadn’t been chased: no one was after her. This
thought slithered in as she continued to press against the door,
continued to fight and slip and slide and desperately scrabble for
support, something to hold onto to help her block Him out. No one
was after her. It was just her, and the dark, and her rasping,
echoing breath, and not knowing where the hell she was. Again.

It didn’t take
long for tears to start. The feeling of complete helplessness, of
humiliation. The dark around her once more became a physical thing
that pressed down on her, swallowed her. She fancied she could
taste it as it entered her mouth, beat against her eyes. She
screamed, to force the dark away from her, to scare it out of her
mouth, away from her eyes. The scream echoed, empty, hollow,
fading. The sweat had started to pour from her again, rancid,
slick; coating everything she touched. It became harder to stay
against the door, to keep her folded legs under her. The more she
tried, the more she slid around, the less hold she had. In a
desperate movement to retain her position, she tried to stand a
little, wedge her body harder into the cool frame. Her feet slid
away and she fell, banging her head against the door. It didn’t
hurt that much, but the unexpected motion of meeting something so
hard and unyielding, of slipping again and again, of getting
nowhere: it all took its toll. Before she could stop herself,
before the voice could tell her this wasn’t a smart idea, she gave
up. Lying on the floor, trying to ignore the wet sucking sounds of
her own body, she put her hands over her face and folded herself
in. She didn’t care, she couldn’t care: it was all too much. All
there was were her tears, her terror and the dreadful stench of
herself in the dark. She wasn’t going to play anymore, she was
going home. The crying took her over, her head bowed so her face
touched her knees, her hair plastered over her. She rocked in the
sobbing darkness.

He sat,
waiting, listening. He made a bet with himself: an hour, no
longer.

She discovered
going away was problematic. She didn’t know how long she had been
rocking, how long she had been crying, but slowly, and as surely as
when she had woken up, awareness started to reaffirm, force her to
take notice of herself. Once more it started with her back. What
had been a deep aching cramp was now a burning pain, spread up and
around from the base of her spine. Her shoulders were bruised and
aching too, adding their own tones to her back pain. Rocking, it
had to be admitted, might have been comforting in some strange way,
but it also hurt. The floor beneath her was no longer cold, but it
was hard, hard and raw and pressing into her hip bone. Her head was
filled with cotton wool, hard, impacted cotton wool that weighed
her down and made her feel sick. Her face was just as sore, raw and
open from the tears that stung their way endlessly over her skin. A
gob of snot trailed from her nose down her cheek, sliding off into
her hair. It was no good; as soon as she noticed one thing about
her body another brought itself to her attention. She wiped her
nose. Her hands ached, as did her wrists. Her knees felt raw and
bruised, the soles of her feet tender and sore. Her lungs hurt and
her throat felt as if it had been torn out. She was finding
breathing difficult, a situation not helped by her being bent
double. It was no good, the voice was saying, no good at all. She
was just going to have to unfold, stretch out, breathe. She didn’t
want to, didn’t want to admit she was awake, conscious, feeling.
But the feeling part was not open to negotiation, she was feeling
entirely too much.

It hurt to move
but there was a great sense of relief, satisfaction, in turning on
her back and stretching out. She realised she had been feeling
stuffy and over hot, as moving back her head and letting in a great
gulp of air, a sense of openness and coolness caressed her mouth
and face. There was also a feeling of dizziness, but it soon
passed. Lying there, spread out on the floor, heat and moisture
evaporating off her body, she felt better, better than she had
done. She sucked in the air, grateful for the release, grateful
that there was something nice about the world. The room around her
fell into perfect silence as her breathing slowed, calmed, became
still. She concentrated on that for a moment, bringing her world
down to the tiny regular movement of air going in, air going out.
Air going in, air going out. The pains faded for a moment as she
felt the air coming in, going out. The voice started up again.
Started to think ahead, wonder what was going to happen, was she
going to stand, was she going to sit? How had she gotten there? She
pushed this question aside, it wasn’t to be looked at. She didn’t
know why, but just thinking about it made her stomach clench,
brought an iron band around her lungs making it difficult to
breathe. She searched around for another question, something
easier. The voice accommodated: was she going to lie there for ever
‘til she died of hunger and thirst? What a dramatic thought, she
mused. To lie here and die of hunger and thirst. The voice laughed
at her, began to talk through the odds of that, given what was on
the other side of the door. This thought galvanised her, made her
sit up too quickly, the dizziness almost overwhelming her. The
other side of the door. He was on the other side of the door.
Shit!

He loved to win
bets. That had made three in a row this evening. He stood, silently
moving towards the door. His hand reached for the switch. Soon,
very soon.

Her back was
once more against the door, her legs, aching and cramped, brought
round in front of her. How could she have let herself go all
floppy, all silly and stupid, to lie down and cry, hoping she would
die from the pain of it? How could she? The anger burned in her
mouth. She was a stupid cow. She was a complete fool and no matter
what she was going to get out of this. The voice approved, told her
that was a good thought, she should hold on to it. It wasn’t all
she needed to hold on to. Sitting up had released another sensation
in her body. Her bladder was bursting. The dark was once more
around her, her body once more wedged against the door, and the
need to go was suddenly with her. Strong, insistent, as if she had
been ignoring it for some time. Now what was she going to do?

His finger
lightly stroked the switch, pulsing, sensing, judging. Stand up
little bird, stand up for Daddy...

The more she
thought on it, the worse it became. It soon blotted out all but the
pain in her back, even her throat became less demanding than the
pressure, the actual physical pain that was starting to build in
her groin. It was absurd to her, totally surreal, that of all
things to concern her, pinned as she was on the side of that door,
she was being driven wild by the need to pee. Even the voice agreed
that this was silly, stupid, ridiculous. What could they do? She
and the voice thought it over. They both came to the same
conclusion, the only sensible conclusion there was: she should pee.
Let it out, get rid of the pain and concentrate on the door.
Sitting up there, in her brain, full frontal: an idea. It wasn’t an
appealing idea. Sensible yes, appealing, no. She changed her mind,
arguing with the voice: it was a terrible idea? The voice, she
discovered, was somewhat of a fair weather friend: it didn’t answer
her back. It had gone away, gone in the now grinding pressure of
holding herself in. It was no good, she was going to have to move,
sitting here on the hard floor wasn’t helping. She was going to
have to stand up, leave the door alone, and try and work out where
she was. She dimly realised that not wetting herself, crumpled on
the floor, in the dark, was more important to her than holding onto
the door. She didn’t understand it, but there it was. She took a
deep breath and scrambled awkwardly to her feet.

Flick.

She screamed, a
small part of her aware that this was another pathetic action, but
the pain once more blotted all rational thought out. Her eyes once
more protested, her hands flung instinctively to protect them. She
would have dropped back down, but the fear froze her, kept her
stranded up there, standing, caught by the brightness that had
pierced her through. Red flooded her eyes, ghost images once more
dancing in front of her, keeping track as she shook her head to and
fro. The crying started, a wail tearing itself free of her chest.
Shit, he was there, he was there! It was no good. He was there. The
smell hit her from underneath: sharp, acid, pungent. She felt a
warm puddle build around her bare feet: she had wet herself.

The acrid scent
flooded under the door. Urine filled to its limit with toxins. A
delightful bonus in a game already filling him with glee. His hand
reached for the handle.

She was stooped
over, half way to the floor, half upright. Her hands were jabbed in
her eyes, rubbing, trying to force them to adjust quickly. She
couldn’t be here, she couldn’t be here, in the middle of nowhere,
naked, wet. She just couldn’t. She couldn’t move; she knew that she
needed sight, she needed some direction. She forced her hands away,
forced herself to blink. She must conquer this, must take charge of
her senses.

“I told you not
to leave the bed.”

She startled,
whirling round, trying to face where the voice was. A scream was
caught fast in her throat; she would not let it out. She wasn’t
going to scream again, not ever. Her feet slipped in the puddle. As
she opened her eyes and tried to bring her head up, she fell back,
back onto the soaking wet floor, back onto the hardness and the
pain. Her shoulder hit something half way down. Hit it hard. Stars
danced around in her eyes, pain blossoming out from the joint, her
head snapping forward. She slid down on her side, dazed. Too dazed
to scrunch up, to hide. She lay there, sprawled, wedged between
something. Something hard, cold, at her back, something hard and
cold in front of her. Naked, apart from a coat of her own urine and
sweat. The small, distant voice came back: it wasn’t very helpful.
She pushed the thoughts down with some effort. Shame was riding
her, riding her harder than the fear. Her eyesight was clearing,
helping her identify where she was. A toilet bowl was in front of
her, a brilliant white sheen that showed the wreck of her all too
clearly. Her arm was screeching, shouting that she had to move
before something got mashed. She tried to sit up, found she
couldn’t. It was a narrow space, she was sore and slippery. She
tried again, her elbow banging against the cold hard behind her.
She slipped back down on to the floor, defeated.

There was a
sharp intake of breath from somewhere above her, a sigh of
impatience. She scrunched her eyes shut tight, turned her head to
the floor, her fists clenching. She wouldn’t look, she wouldn’t
look.

“Allow me to
aid you.”

The words
didn’t make sense to her, couldn’t make sense.

“I will not
repeat myself. Allow me to help you.”