running out the door. He doesn’t shut it as he passes through. I try my wrist, attempting to pull myself free. Nothing works, I can’t move.
“Who opened the door?” a voice asks, startling me. Lollipop still in my mouth, I turn to him. He nods to himself like he doesn’t need me to answer, like he already knows.
He’s dressed much as I remember him. I thought I’d fabricated his looks in my head. He’s beautiful—heart-wrenchingly so. His beard is long, but not overgrown, his dark hair is pulled to the side. Dark clothes, only a white shirt.
“Please let me go,” I ask and his eyes shoot to mine. They’re so unique, different from a distance. It appears like he knows my darkest secrets, but I hope like hell no one does. No one needs to know those secrets. I don’t even want to remember them.
“You going to go and get high again, Rose?” That question startles me, I don’t use that name. Haven’t used it for a while now. The people that know me as her wouldn’t recognize me now.
“How do you know who I am?” He steps in, and he seems to do it in slow motion. Like he counts each step. My wrist scratches against the cuff that ties me to the bed, trying to pull myself away from him, away from what he brings—feelings.
“Your name isn’t Rose?” he asks, almost at my bed now.
I shake my head. “No, my name is Cass,” I lie. That’s my street name. The one the drug dealers know me as, the one the whores know me as.
“Don’t lie, Rose.” His voice is soft, but so hard. I don’t think a man like him would ever have to raise his voice, there’s so much authority there already.
“If I tell you the truth, will you let me go?” He ponders my question, not giving me an answer straight away. His eyes look me over. Watching me as if he knows all the answers already.
“Yes, the truth.” I nod my head. Dropping it, trying to think of a lie, but how far can I actually lie? He seems to know me. How much does he really know? How much can I lie about?
“Thinking of a lie won’t help.” He just stands there, he doesn’t seem to move. So when he speaks, it pulls me so my eyes met up with his.
“I was once known as Rose… before… before I was broken.” I hoped that was enough. I chance another look, but he’s waiting for more, he wants more.
“I started the drugs to numb the pain, numb it all out of my existence. A person can only break so much before they’re truly broken.” He steps forward. I thought at first his hands were coming to touch me and that he may hurt me, but he doesn’t touch me once. He reaches out and undoes the cuff, dropping it to the ground, and then walks back out.
I sit there, rubbing my wrist. Wondering why all of a sudden he would just let me walk away. Is it a trap? Where do I go? Where am I?
I immediately use the toilet, and when I’m finished, I step a foot out of the threshold that has held me captive for so long. I look up. There’s a stairwell, and up the stairs the door is open. The smell of food wafting down to me makes my stomach grumble loudly.
Across from my door is another door, leading to my freedom. I open the freedom door, contemplating my options. I could just leave, but where would I go? Who would want me? I don’t even know where I am. I look back up the stairs. Music is playing, it’s dark, sad music. I inch closer, the food and sound bringing me in.
I take the stairs slow, not sure what I’m doing. The thought of food pushes me faster, taking any rational thoughts from my brain.
He stands at the stove, still dressed as he was before. Boots still on his feet, he doesn’t look to me, doesn’t acknowledge me at all. Even when the floor creaks under my feet.
He continues cooking, the music loud. I stand there, watching what he’s doing. He’s so silent and strong, the way he holds himself is different to most men. It’s scary and exhilarating. His hand moves from the stove top, the music is turned down, and then he speaks, making
“Who opened the door?” a voice asks, startling me. Lollipop still in my mouth, I turn to him. He nods to himself like he doesn’t need me to answer, like he already knows.
He’s dressed much as I remember him. I thought I’d fabricated his looks in my head. He’s beautiful—heart-wrenchingly so. His beard is long, but not overgrown, his dark hair is pulled to the side. Dark clothes, only a white shirt.
“Please let me go,” I ask and his eyes shoot to mine. They’re so unique, different from a distance. It appears like he knows my darkest secrets, but I hope like hell no one does. No one needs to know those secrets. I don’t even want to remember them.
“You going to go and get high again, Rose?” That question startles me, I don’t use that name. Haven’t used it for a while now. The people that know me as her wouldn’t recognize me now.
“How do you know who I am?” He steps in, and he seems to do it in slow motion. Like he counts each step. My wrist scratches against the cuff that ties me to the bed, trying to pull myself away from him, away from what he brings—feelings.
“Your name isn’t Rose?” he asks, almost at my bed now.
I shake my head. “No, my name is Cass,” I lie. That’s my street name. The one the drug dealers know me as, the one the whores know me as.
“Don’t lie, Rose.” His voice is soft, but so hard. I don’t think a man like him would ever have to raise his voice, there’s so much authority there already.
“If I tell you the truth, will you let me go?” He ponders my question, not giving me an answer straight away. His eyes look me over. Watching me as if he knows all the answers already.
“Yes, the truth.” I nod my head. Dropping it, trying to think of a lie, but how far can I actually lie? He seems to know me. How much does he really know? How much can I lie about?
“Thinking of a lie won’t help.” He just stands there, he doesn’t seem to move. So when he speaks, it pulls me so my eyes met up with his.
“I was once known as Rose… before… before I was broken.” I hoped that was enough. I chance another look, but he’s waiting for more, he wants more.
“I started the drugs to numb the pain, numb it all out of my existence. A person can only break so much before they’re truly broken.” He steps forward. I thought at first his hands were coming to touch me and that he may hurt me, but he doesn’t touch me once. He reaches out and undoes the cuff, dropping it to the ground, and then walks back out.
I sit there, rubbing my wrist. Wondering why all of a sudden he would just let me walk away. Is it a trap? Where do I go? Where am I?
I immediately use the toilet, and when I’m finished, I step a foot out of the threshold that has held me captive for so long. I look up. There’s a stairwell, and up the stairs the door is open. The smell of food wafting down to me makes my stomach grumble loudly.
Across from my door is another door, leading to my freedom. I open the freedom door, contemplating my options. I could just leave, but where would I go? Who would want me? I don’t even know where I am. I look back up the stairs. Music is playing, it’s dark, sad music. I inch closer, the food and sound bringing me in.
I take the stairs slow, not sure what I’m doing. The thought of food pushes me faster, taking any rational thoughts from my brain.
He stands at the stove, still dressed as he was before. Boots still on his feet, he doesn’t look to me, doesn’t acknowledge me at all. Even when the floor creaks under my feet.
He continues cooking, the music loud. I stand there, watching what he’s doing. He’s so silent and strong, the way he holds himself is different to most men. It’s scary and exhilarating. His hand moves from the stove top, the music is turned down, and then he speaks, making
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