by Cerys du Lys
He left me. I opened the dictionary and scanned to the section for words beginning with the letter D. Then more, to da-, dal-, another l-, dally...
Dally was...
To waste time or loiter. Or to act playfully, in an amorous or flirtatious way. Or to mockingly play.
I didn’t know what some of that meant, so I looked up amorous next.
Inclined or disposed to love, especially sexual love.
Alright, so it sounded like Angeline meant, um... I tried to piece it all together. This was hard.
“If you should desire it, you may act playfully in a sexual love or flirtatious way with them.”
Was she saying they’d just have sex with me if I went up and asked them? She mentioned something about seeds, though. I hadn’t seen any gardeners so far, but some of the windows overlooking the lawn offered a beautiful view of different types of flowers and trees. There must be some gardeners somewhere.
That was kind of weird. She said I could have sex with a gardener? I should go find one and ask what she meant.
Yeah, that was a good idea. Because it wasn’t just that, you know? I could use this to my advantage. She probably thought it’d keep me distracted and busy, but I could use my feminine charms to get answers from them. While I wowed them with my sexy body, I’d convince them to tell me where Noah was. Maybe I could get them to help me get rid of that woman, too. They couldn’t like her, because I didn’t know how anyone could like her. She was kind of a bitch. I didn’t want to be rude about it, but there wasn’t any better way to say it.
*** Noah
I don’t know what the fuck is going on, but Angeline’s abandoned me here. After that weird stint at breakfast, she locked me in some room and left me there. I don’t care much, because why should I, but it doesn’t make sense. If she’s trying to train me and make me submit to her, this is a terrible fucking way to do it.
Maybe that’s part of her game, though. I have a lot of time to think about it, so the thoughts keep coming to me, trying to figure her out. No matter what, I still can’t.
One of her slaves brings me meals twice a day, so that works out fine. He never talks, and he slides the food towards me on the floor, using his foot. I’m not sure why I’d want to talk to one of Angeline’s slaves, anyways. They’ve been brainwashed to submit to her unconditionally in everything she says, which means they’re only there because she asked them to bring me food. I doubt they care whether I live or die.
Does she, though? Yeah, she’s got to. She’s making sure I eat, and so far nothing’s been poisoned. She could have killed me easily before now. Did I mention I’m chained to a bed? Yeah, because I’m chained to a fucking bed. I can barely reach the food the asshole slave brings me half the time because of that. When I first saw him with a meal, I briefly considered saving the tray to use as a weapon somehow. If all else failed, I could slam it over my head and knock myself out for the fun of it, or at least try. Break up the monotony a bit, eh?
Everything’s on a paper plate, though. What the fuck am I going to do with that? Give myself a damn paper cut? If I try that, do you know what will happen? I’ll bleed. You know what’ll happen then? Fucking vampire queen psycho bitch Angeline will show up. She’s seriously insane. There’s no way anyone can convince me otherwise.
Damn, she’s a great kisser, though. It’s the stupidest fucking small things that make the most impact. It’s always those stupid fucking small things. The thought of it pisses me off.
She’s not even here. Is she punishing me? What a shitty punishment. Ripping off three of my nails was much better. Being left here alone is kind of relaxing.
Fuck. I realize what she’s doing.
My broken finger is healing well. The splint helps a lot. I can’t grip much, and I wouldn’t risk removing the splint because it’s going to be weeks before it’s completely healed, but it’s getting some much needed rest. That’s just one hand.
My other hand is in much better shape. I can actually use that one, though the dull throbbing pain stays with me. The skin that used to be beneath my fingernails has become harder and rough. I’m not bleeding anymore, either. There are scabs near my cuticles, but the bed of my nail is flesh colored like the rest of my hand, but a little darker than that.
It’s not something I’ve ever thought about before, but you really miss your fingernails once they’re gone, too. Can’t scratch anything. Got an itch? Nope, fuck you. Deal with it. It’s harder to grab things, too. It feels like I miss by a fraction of an inch each time I try to pick something up. Not that I’m picking up a lot here. I don’t even get a fork or a knife or a spoon with my meals. It’s a fucking plate with food on it and that’s it.
Thanks for the fucking sandwich, Angeline. I question how sadistic she actually is, though. She hasn’t given me mashed potatoes or chili yet, so she’s not trying hard enough.
That’s what I do for days. Deal with my pain, think about Angeline, lay on a bed, sleep, and eat food.
Fuck this. I’m almost excited when she finally shows up again, bringing one of my meals with her. Look at that shit, a meal delivered by the almighty Angeline herself, psycho bitch extraordinaire. I am one special motherfucker, let me tell you. I bet she doesn’t do that for just anyone.
“Hello, Noah,” she says, smiling. Her eyes are still empty; they’re always empty.
She doesn’t do that stupid shit where she kicks the plate over to me on the floor, but she doesn’t exactly hand it to me, either. There’s a desk next to the bed I’m chained to, and she sits in a chair there, while sliding the plate to me.
I take it and start eating. No fucking point in not eating. It’s not going to do me any good if I starve myself.
“I missed you,” she says. “Did you miss me, Noah?”
“Why the fuck would I miss you, love?” I say in between mouthfuls of roast beef sandwich.
“Noah,” she says, gritting her teeth.
Yeah. Her fucking rules, huh? Fuck her and her rules. Mistress Angeline or whatever bullshit? She can’t be that serious about any of it. She’s not even trying.
“Fuck off, Ange,” I say.
She doesn’t say anything after that. I get to finish my meal in peace. It’s a sandwich, so nothing extravagant, but I like roast beef and I’m hungry. Whatever works is fine by me.
Once I finish, I throw the plate at her. It’s paper and floppy and doesn’t even make it halfway between me and her before tumbling to the ground. Thanks, plate. You’re fucking useless to me.
I’m in a mood to talk, so I do. I haven’t talked to anyone in days, and I want to piss Angeline off and show her exactly how stupid this whole set up is.
“You can’t handle this, Ange,” I say. “I’d like to say it’s not you, it’s me, but it’s not. It’s you. I get it, alright? You don’t have to explain. I understand. What do you usually do? Find some guy, kidnap them with a little seduction or some shit? Drugged drink, maybe? That’s the easy part, for sure. Then what? Do your kissy thing? Take a few fingernails? That’s good, by the way. Fucking hurts like hell. Surprised me at first, but once it’s done it’s not so bad.”
Yeah, I say this while my fingers still throb with dull pain. It’s hard to fucking sleep sometimes because it’s worse when I lay down. It’s the only thing I can think about. I’m not going to tell her that, though. I’m not that weak.
“That’s probably it,” I continue. “Maybe you have a few more tricks up your sleeve. I wouldn’t put it past you, Ange. You’re smart. I give credit where credit is due. We’re in the exact same spot as when we began, though. I’m not going to grovel at your feet. Nothing you do is going to work on me. Sorry to say it, love, but we need to get that out of the way. Thanks for the visit. You can let me go any time now.”
And, also, fuck you. I don’t say that one. No point. I’ve said enough as it is.
She sits there and listens and takes it. That’s how I can tell she’s not good at this. Who the fuck just takes a verbal beating like that? I
f it were me, and I was training some new girl to submit to my every whim, she wouldn’t have gotten past her first sentence. She wouldn’t have...
I cover my mouth as I yawn. My eyes close halfway. It becomes a struggle to keep them open. Shit, I know eating a big meal makes you tired, but I only had a sandwich. I could use a drink, too. Usually they bring something, but Angeline is so dumb she forgot.
“I had hoped you would be more agreeable, Noah,” she says. “I am disappointed.”
“Fuck off, Ange.”
“I was only going to take one of your fingernails if you acted pleasantly. I see that is impossible. I will try to be fair, though. I should take more, but I will only take three again. I will wait until you wake up, as well. I am sorry, Noah. I did not want to do this.”
“The fuck?” I ask, but I don’t need to ask her anything. It dawns on me when it becomes a struggle to keep my eyes open.
She drugged my food. The stupid fucking bitch drugged my sandwich. She planned this from the start. I fell for her game. I don’t know how. I’m not thinking straight. She shouldn’t be like this. I should be better than her. I need to be better than her, because I have shit to do. I need to get out of here. Why won’t she understand? I’ve been trying to explain this to her, but it’s impossible.
I don’t care anymore, but I do. That fingernail machine is fucking terrifying. Three? Again? I only have ten fucking fingers, and one of them is broken.
This is what she wants. She wants me to panic and beg. It’s not going to happen. Yeah, it’s going to hurt like hell, but fuck you, Angeline. Go to fucking hell.
*** Angeline
I watch him as he carries Noah away. He is not strong enough and he struggles to lift Noah’s limp, almost lifeless body. Noah is sleeping because I gave him something to help him rest. He will wake up, but not soon. I hope he has nice dreams. I do not have them, because I do not know how.
I do not know this man’s name, but he angers me. His attempt at carrying Noah results in Noah’s feet dragging on the floor. I do not like that. Noah is precious. This man cannot carry him properly. It frustrates me.
“Stop,” I say. I stomp towards the man and he stares at me, passive. I slap him across the face and he flinches and frowns. He is wrong. He should not frown. He is not allowed to feel or to be sad. Suddenly, I want to kill him. I keep weapons hidden throughout my house so that I may find and use one at a moment’s notice. There is a small dagger hidden behind a painting within reach to my left, which I may grab and thrust into this man’s throat, ending him.
Noah is here, though. Yes, Noah sleeps, but I do not wish to disturb his dreams, nor do I want to upset him. I shall not kill this man now. He is fortunate. I do not know how much longer he will live. He is on borrowed time.
“Place him gently on the floor,” I say. “Go find another to assist you. Return within three minutes.”
I do not need to say “or else,” because it is always assumed. I refuse to coddle this man, nor any other man within my home. Not now, nor ever.
Except, perhaps, Noah. Oh, Noah, my lovely sweet and handsome Noah. The man places Noah on the ground, following my specifications, then rushes off to find another. I do not need to keep track of how long they are gone. Time is agony to me. I feel every second as if it is a century or more, and there is nothing I can do to stop it. I wish I did not always know exactly how much time passed. It may seem useful to others, but I promise it is not.
Noah lays on the floor peacefully. He is on his back. I kneel at his side and place his arms on his chest in a comfortable pose. He does not have a pillow. He needs a pillow. I have provided Noah with as many comforts as I am able to give him under the circumstances. I refuse to neglect him. He is so precious to me.
I crawl across the floor and move behind him. Lifting his head and a part of his upper body, I lay his head and his shoulders in my lap.
Oh, Noah, what is inside that head of yours? I stare down at him. Maybe I can see if I look into his eyes? I know it is foolish, and yet a strong desire forces my hand. I place one finger on his eyelid and peel it back until I can see his slumbering eye. He does not move nor twitch as I touch him.
I stare into his eye. Noah has handsome, pretty eyes. I know now what I want. I want Noah to look at me. When he awakens, I will ask him to do so. He may look into my eyes in return, but I do not know if he will like what he sees. I want to see the world as he sees it.
I like the taste of Noah’s blood, but I wonder if I will also enjoy the taste of his eye? I consider it. It is possible for me to lean down and peek out my tongue and lap at it if I like. He would never know. Do I want him to know? Yes. I wish to do it when he is awake, so he may see me. Oh, Noah, I will be gentle and sweet.
I think he will be angry with me once I take three more of his fingernails, though. I will put them to good use, Noah. Please do not worry. He must be angry with me, already. It is not that he will be, but that he must be. It is necessary.
I let go of Noah’s eyelid and allow him to sleep with both eyes closed once more. My fingers trail through his hair and I touch him softly like that, feeling him in my hand. He is so gentle and soft while he rests like this. I do not believe I am gentle and soft when I rest.
Two minutes and fifty eight seconds passes before the man returns with another. He is lucky.
“Carry him,” I say. “Be careful. If you drop him or jostle him, I will end you.”
They carry him. They are gentle and careful. I hope you are dreaming well, Noah. Come back to me soon. I miss you.
*** Noah
I wake up and immediately I’m pissed, because this shit keeps happening to me. It’s like my entire fucking life has become one big, endless dream. I’m awake, then I’m not, because Angeline knocks me out. Again and again. What the fuck is her issue?
I know what her issue is, but it’s hard to fully realize it. She wants me to submit to her, and fuck if I’m going to do that, so I don’t, and then she forces me to. That’s about how it goes with me in my line of business, too. If I’m training a girl, right? And she’s not listening? Big mistake, love. Sorry to be the one to tell you this, but you’ve made a big fucking mistake.
Which is me right now. I’m a big mistake. My entire existence is some huge fucking joke to the world, and Angeline’s the punchline.
The sad part is I know how to stop it. It’s how I know to stop when I’m training a girl. Yeah, sure, you’ve got to keep them on their toes, too, always guessing, but if they do what I say, then I start to ease up a little. Just a little. You never know when they’re going to fight back.
I’ve constantly been fighting back against Angeline, though. Because, fuck, of course I’m going to. She must realize it, too. I don’t know how she works, and that’s a problem. I don’t know if she eases up with good behavior, or if she’s one of those types who constantly goes full strength. Either way works. Sometimes I need to do it, too. It’s unfortunate, but when you need to get shit done, you have to do what you have to do. No other way around it. It’s not my fault, love, you’re just too damn stubborn.
I’m strapped into that chair again in the room with the nail torture machine. Angeline has it set up and ready. My thumb is already latched in, and the crescent wedge is pressed in tight. All she’s got to do is slam down on the lever, and there goes my nail.
Fucking fuck. Fuck you, Angeline.
She stands there and stares at me with those soulless, empty eyes of hers. I wonder what she sees. What the fuck is she thinking? I really mean that, too. Not in a “Wow, you dumb bitch” way, but more philosophically speaking. I haven’t wondered what someone was thinking in a long time. Usually people are easy to read.
Angeline’s easy to read if I stop and think about it. It’s simple, actually. She doesn’t make sense, because there’s nothing to make sense of. She’s crazy and psychotic and a bitch. What more do I need to know?
“Hello, Noah,” she says. “Did you sleep well?”
“You drugged me,
Angeline,” I say, being candid. Just going to get that out of the way. “No, I didn’t sleep well.”
“Do you wish to talk with me first?” she asks.
By that, I take it to mean that she’s asking if I want to delay the inevitable. My finger’s set up to lose a nail, so do I want it gone sooner or later? That’s a difficult question. How the fuck do you answer that? Do you sit there and fret over the anticipation and inevitable pain, or get it over with? Is this like that question she asked me about sausage or eggs? Probably.
Yeah, let’s fucking talk, Angeline. That’s exactly what I’ve been waiting for all my life. Oh, is it, Noah? That’s what she’ll say. Then she’ll slam her fucking hands on the lever and rip my nail out. Fuck you, Angeline.
I do the only thing I can think of. It’s the only reasonable thing to do in a situation like this. The nail shit is going to happen no matter what, so I’m done with that. I’m prepared. Fuck, it’ll hurt, but I guess that’s just how it is. If it happens now or later, it doesn’t matter, sad to say. I’m prepared now. I’m ready.
“What do you want to talk about, love?” I say.
Fuck. Why? I called her “love” again, and I was trying to be fucking gentle and nice, but obviously it’s going to piss her off. I look at her, and yeah, she’s pissed.
“Apologize,” she says.
“Apparently it’s a really fucking bad habit,” I say. “Sorry.”
She sighs. “Noah, apologize again.”
“Can’t we just go with it?” I ask. “I get that I’m not making this easy for you, Ange, but it’s not easy for me, either.”
That’s terrible logic. It’s not supposed to be easy for me. I’m the damn slave in all of this. I’m supposed to fucking listen and she’s supposed to train me.
She’s not budging. No, she’s staring at me. Her fingers twitch and I’m almost positive I’m about to lose a nail sooner rather than later.
“Thumbs hurt the worst,” she says. “I wanted to do your thumb first because it will hurt the worst.”
