by Amy Cross
He stared at her for a moment, as if he was still trying to work out whether or not to trust her. “You know I'm not a monster, don't you?” he asked finally. “I've raised you right. I've done good by you, and I'm not some kind of perv. All I've ever wanted to do is protect you. Do you have any idea how crazed and indecent the world is out there?”
She shook her head.
“It's like a storm of cruelty and meanness,” he told her. “People getting hurt, and worse, and being humiliated... It's a shame, really, it could be so nice, but most people are too stupid to understand. They screw everything up, but I knew as soon as I saw you in the street that day, I knew I had to keep you safe. And I've done that. It's been hard, but I was right to do what I did. And I promised you I'd never touch you, remember? The very first day, I promised you that, and I've kept my word. Not until the time is right.”
“Whatever you think best,” she replied, fighting the urge to run.
“I'll be through in a sec,” he told her. “I want to go out and check the mailbox too, so...” He paused. “I guess I can leave you to cook while I'm gone, can't I? I mean, I can really trust you?”
She nodded. After waiting a moment in case he said anything else, she finally turned to head toward the door.
Reaching out, he grabbed her hand.
“You're trembling,” he told her.
She tried to stop, but she couldn't. “I just want to get it right.”
“Come on,” he replied with childlike enthusiasm, as he led her into the kitchen. Opening the freezer drawer, he pulled out a box of fish fingers and handed them to her. “Put some oil in a pan and fry them, yeah? Don't worry about chips today, we'll relax and just have fish.” Heading to the front door, he slipped into his boots. “I'll go and check the post.”
Once he was gone, she stood and stared at the box in her trembling hands. She knew she should run, that she should just get away as fast as possible, but at the same time she was worried that if she made a mistake, she'd never get another chance. She'd tried to run twice before, both times when she was much younger, and he'd always caught up to her. Now, as she heard him heading to the mailbox by the gate, she realized she needed to be absolutely certain that he never, ever found her again. Glancing at the counter, she saw a set of knives and for a few seconds she imagined herself using them on him, driving them into his chest and his face.
At the same time, now that the opportunity had arrived, she suddenly felt herself filled with doubts. What if he was right about the rest of the world? What if, despite everything she felt in her gut, she'd be better off staying with him? After all, he knew a lot about the world, and she'd spent most of her life chained to a bed. She had no idea how to survive without him.
“I should just stay,” she whispered. “It's not so bad here. He loves me...”
She paused, before heading over to the counter, setting the box of fish fingers down, and picking up one of the knives. The blade was long and wide, and for a moment she saw her own reflection in the metal. She'd dreamed of this moment for so long.
“Nothing for us today!” Renton called out as he stomped back into the house.
She flinched, but when she heard him heading back to the dining room, she knew her chance had come. She still felt tempted to just cook the damn food and stay with him, but at the same time she hated the idea of having to do all the other things he demanded. She hated the idea of staying and she hated the idea of going back to the outside world, of going back to her parents and being prodded and poked, but finally a kind of gut reaction took over and she took the knife over to the door.
“I don't hear frying!” Renton called out, sounding genuinely happy. “You alright in there, darling?”
She made her way to the dining room and stopped in the doorway, watching as he studied the phone bill.
“These buggers,” he muttered, turning to her, “always trying to -”
Stopping suddenly, he saw the knife in her hand. The smile stayed on his face for a moment, as if it had been frozen in place, before slowly fading away.
“Oh, Becky,” he said calmly, “come on, love...”
With tears in her eyes, she took a step forward.
“Let's get married,” he continued. “That's what I was thinking. Let's make it official. We can't have babies until we're married. You know that, right? A woman's body, it changes when she's married, it knows somehow and it unblocks things. Plus, we're not allowed to do the things we need to do, not unless we're married. It wouldn't be right.” He waited for a reply, while still nervously watching the knife. “Come on, don't make me think I was wrong to let you down here. Please, Becky, don't make me angry, you know what it's like when I get angry and I don't wanna hurt you, do I?”
She shook her head.
Stepping toward her, he looked into her eyes for a moment before reaching down and gently slipping the knife out of her hand. For a fraction of a second, she considered tightening her grip, before letting it go.
“I know you love me,” he whispered. “I love you, so you have to love me, because if one person loves another person, that person has to love them back. It's how it works.”
“I do,” she replied.
“You do what? Say the words.”
She paused, as tears ran down her cheeks. “I love you.”
“That's better,” he replied, before leaning closer and slowly, tenderly licking each of her tears away. “Mmm,” he added, “salty. I love you so much, Becky, that it makes me really angry when you make me feel bad. And you made me feel bad just now, with that knife in your hand. You understand that, don't you?”
She nodded.
Reaching up, he put a hand on the side of her face.
“Such soft skin,” he whispered, as his smile returned. “How do you think I should punish you?”
“I'm sorry,” she whimpered, “I just... I wasn't going to use it! I was going to open the box with it!”
“You were?” He paused. “So you didn't have a little slip? You weren't thinking about running away again? Not even for a teeny, tiny moment?”
“I'm so sorry,” she sobbed. “Please don't -”
Before she could finish, he slammed her head into the side of the door and then pushed her down to the floor. She let out a gasp, before remembering that he always hated it when she made a noise during her punishments. Instead, she held her breath and waited for the throbbing sensation to pass, although finally she had to take a couple of deep, hawking breaths.
“That physical pain you're feeling,” he said firmly, watching as she clutched the side of her head, “is a bodily manifestation of the emotional pain you just caused me when I saw you with the knife. Do you understand that?”
She nodded as tears flowed down her cheeks.
“I'm gonna have to put you back up there, aren't I?” he continued, grabbing her arm and hauling her to her feet. “Jesus Christ, you're bleeding right above your eye. Why did you make me do that to you?”
She tried to reply, but her words were lost in the sobs.
“Does this hurt?” He poked the cut, causing her to flinch. “And this?” The same again. “It's deep, but I think you'll be okay.”
She reached up with a trembling hand to feel the wound, but he pushed her hand away.
“I can't overlook this,” he told her, with pure, cold anger in his eyes. “I have to punish you, Becky, do you realize that? It's not that I enjoy it, it's that you keep putting me in a position where I have no choice. You do this to yourself, every time. To us.”
“I know,” she whimpered, “I'm sorry...”
“Stop saying that!” he hissed, pushing her toward the table. “Every time you tell me you're sorry, it just makes my heart bleed a little harder because I know, deep down, that you're a good person.” Picking up the knife, he turned to her. “I have to make you feel how I feel,” he continued, “so you know never to do it again, but that's only possible if I cut you. You understand that, don't you? You hurt me emotionally, so now I h
ave to hurt you physically, and that's completely fair. Take your top off and bend over the table.”
“But -”
“Do it!” he shouted.
“Please -”
“Do it!”
Grabbing her arm, he twisted her around and pushed her down so fast that her head bounced against the table. As she gasped, he took the bottom of her shirt and pulled it up, exposing her already-scarred back.
“Every time,” he grunted, as he pressed the blade against her skin and began to slice, “you make me punish you -”
Crying out, she gripped the side of the table.
“Don't make that pathetic noise,” he muttered, as he watched blood running from the cut he'd just made. He reached down and ran a fingertip through the mess, smearing blood across her skin and writing the word 'Sorry' in large letters. “Grow up, Becky, and take the punishment you've earned.”
As he made another cut, she screamed.
“Jesus Christ, girl, you know how to be wicked.”
“Please...”
“Do you know how my old man used to punish me when I'd been bad?” He took hold of her waist and squeezed tight. “He used to -”
“No!” she shouted, turning and pushing him away, causing him to drop the knife in the process. Reaching down, she picked it up with a trembling hand and turned to him, holding the knife out in case he came closer. “I'm sorry,” she stammered, “I'm really sorry...”
“If you say that word one more time,” he said firmly, “I'll replace you.”
“I'm so sorry.” She wiped her eyes, but there were so many tears, she could barely see properly.
“Do you have any idea what you've just done?” he asked, his eyes wide with fury. “By all right I should finish you off, do you understand that? Becky, I love you with all my heart, I've loved you since the first time I saw you, but this behavior has to stop!”
“Please don't cut me,” she whispered, as more tears ran down her face. “I'll do anything you want, but please don't cut me again. I'll marry you, I'll stay here, I'll do anything but don't cut me!”
“Or what?” he asked.
“Or -”
“Or this?” he shouted, grabbing one of the chairs and smashing it against the wall, causing it to break in two. Holding one of the pieces, with the jagged, broken leg pointed toward her, he took a step closer. “If you don't like the knife -”
“Please,” she sobbed, backing away with the knife still in her hand, “don't hurt me...”
“You hurt me,” he said firmly, “so I get to hurt you back. A loving relationship can't last if one person hurts the other person more! Are you thick? Don't you get that? There has to be balance, love!”
“No, please -”
Before she could finish, he swung the chair at her, hitting her on the side of the head and knocking her back against the wall. He swung at her again, catching her on the neck and causing her to cry out. When he swung at her for a third time, she reached out and tried to defend herself, only for the jagged piece of broken wood to catch the skin on her left arm, tearing through and briefly pinning her against the wall. She screamed as Renton pushed the chair further into the wound.
“This,” he sneered, leaning close, “is just the start of -”
Turning, she plunged the knife into his chest.
Closing her eyes, she waited.
All she could hear was a faint, guttural clicking sound.
After what felt like an eternity, she slowly opened her eyes.
For a moment, neither of them reacted. Renton seemed frozen, staring at her with a slowly building hint of disbelief in his eyes, while Becky waited for him to do something, or say something, or cry out. He hand was still holding the knife's handle, trembling so much that she could feel the blade shuddering against the ribs it had slipped between.
“I'm sorry,” she whispered.
Finally he let out a faint gasp, before looking down at her trembling hand, as if he still couldn't quite believe what she'd done.
“It's...” He tried to take a deep breath, but something seemed to be holding him back. A moment later, a trickle of blood began to run from his mouth. “It's in...” Another pause. “It's in my heart, love...”
“I'm sorry.”
“It's in my heart,” he said again, clasping his hands around hers on the handle. “It's in my heart.”
“I'm sorry.” Slowly, carefully, she pulled her hands away, until he was left holding the knife in his own chest. She took a step back, just waiting to see what he'd do next.
“It's...” He seemed to be trying to pull the knife out, but finally he let go of the handle and leaned against the wall, as if he was struggling to stay upright. “Love,” he whispered. “It's in my heart. It's right in my heart.”
She opened her mouth to say something, but no words came out.
“It's...”
He dropped to his knees as more blood began to run from his mouth, and a dark red patch was slowly growing across his chest. Turning, he reached toward the table, before letting out another gasp and lowering himself down onto his side.
Getting down onto her knees, she looked closely at him.
“I...”
She waited, but he didn't finish the sentence.
Pulling back, she crawled to the corner of the room, where she curled up as tight as she could manage and tried not to listen to the faint gurgles and gasps coming from Renton's lips.
“I'm sorry,” she said again, staring at him with wild, terrified eyes. “I'm sorry...”
Chapter Twenty
Today
Flames filled the early evening air as the farmhouse burned, sending huge plumes of black smoke into the sky.
Sitting in the driver's seat of Joe Lewis's car, Ophelia watched from a safe distance. Her eyes were fixed on the window of the spare room, where she'd been held for all those years. There was a part of her that wished Andrew Renton had still been alive, that she'd been able to return to the house and exact vengeance. Just off the top of her head, she could think of a million ways to get back at him. Still, the sight of the place going up in flames was strangely satisfying, and at least this time she knew that she'd never be able to return.
“You should've stayed inside,” Renton's voice whispered.
Turning, she saw him sitting in the passenger seat, smiling at her.
“You could be with me now,” he continued. “You could've put right the mistake you made.”
“I...” She paused. “I didn't make a mistake.”
“Come on, love, don't be like that.”
“I'm not going to be like this,” she replied. “I'm not...” Turning back to look at the house, she saw that, if anything, the flames were becoming more intense, spreading to the rest of the building. “I'm not going to hallucinate.”
“Who says you're hallucinating?”
“I do.”
“What if you're wrong?”
“Then you'll still be there when I look back at you in a moment.” She waited for a moment, before turning and looking at the passenger seat.
It was empty.
Sighing, she leaned back and waited, just in case the voice returned. After a moment, she thought back to the moment when she'd lit the match. She'd been so certain that she was going to stay in the house when it burned, and that she was going to let Joe Lewis burn too. Something had stopped her, though. It was as if Daniel Gregory had been right when he said that she still clung to the hope that she might one day live a normal life. So she'd let that match burn out, and then she'd done a few more things before going back inside and lighting another.
“Fuck,” a voice moaned.
Nearby, handcuffed to a tree, Joe Lewis was slowly starting to wake up.
“Don't worry,” she called out to him, “I'll make sure someone comes and picks you up soon! You'll know they're on their way when you see flashing blue lights in the distance.”
Opening his eyes, he winced as he looked at her.
“You're lucky
I'm such a nice person,” she said after a moment, with a faint smile. “Most people would've left you in there. I crossed that line once, I killed Andrew Renton in that house, but... now I'm crossing back. I'm not a killer.”
“Hang on,” he groaned, “let's talk about this...”
“Tell it to the police,” she replied, starting the engine, before remembering that she had no idea how to drive a car. “This is going to be fun,” she muttered, fiddling with the gear-stick for a moment before cautiously pressing one of the pedals. When that didn't work, she tried the other pedal, and the car lurched forward, almost going straight into the nearby river before she slowed down and turned the wheel.
“Come back!” Lewis shouted, as the farmhouse continued to burn nearby. “You can't leave me here! We can strike a deal! I was only joking back there! Ophelia!”
***
Three years ago
“Like I said,” the guy said, scratching the back of his neck, “it's not the Ritz, but -”
“It's fine,” she replied, looking around the cramped, damp-smelling room. “I'll take it.”
“And it's only for one night, yeah?”
She turned to him. “I think so. Maybe.”
He watched her for a moment, as if there was something he felt wasn't quite right. “Okay,” he said finally, “I'd better get down to the desk. If you need anything, let me know.”
“Is there a shop near here?” she asked. “I might want to get something to eat later.”
“Yeah,” he replied, pulling his phone out of his pocket and bringing up a map. “That's where we are right now,” he explained, “and there's a supermarket right there. It's open twenty-four hours a day.”
“What is this thing?” she asked, taking the phone from him.
“What do you mean?”
“It's like a little computer!”
“It's just a phone.” He paused. “You haven't seen one before?”
“Not like this. Where are the buttons?”
“It's touchscreen.” He took the phone back from her and showed her. “See?”
