Tainted

by Dani Matthews

  “That’s bullshit. You never explained the rules,” I burst out, trying to forget that he’d just pulled out fucking sewing needles.

  He pauses and tilts his head, saying over his shoulder, “Have you changed your mind, Jill?”

  I glance her way to see that she’s watching us with terrified eyes. She licks her lips and asks, “What happens after I take my clothes off?”

  My father rolls his eyes. “Do you really have to ask?”

  Jill refuses to look at me and firmly remains silent. She’s not willing to sacrifice herself for me. Not that I blame her.

  “Just as I thought,” my father says as he pulls out a small needle. He holds it up to the light and studies it for a moment, drawing out the horror of what’s about to happen. When he seems satisfied with it, he brings the needle towards my right hand.

  I struggle to move my hand beneath the wires, but it’s impossible. My fingers are secured to the chair’s arm, and there’s no way to escape the coming torture as my heart races out of control. This was never really about a game, and I know that now. No matter what Jill would have done, he would have found a way to twist it so that I was the one being punished.

  “Don’t do this,” I say sharply, struggling not to beg. I won’t give him that satisfaction no matter what he does to me.

  He brings the point of the needle to my index finger, gently easing it beneath the tip of my nail as the point rests against the sensitive skin of the nail bed. His eyes lift to mine, and I see nothing—no remorse, no anticipation—just nothing as he picks up the mallet. “Look at her,” he orders, referring to Jill.

  I clench my jaw and glare.

  He applies pressure, and the needle pierces my skin, causing me to jerk in the chair as pain swells beneath my nail. “Look at her!” he says forcefully.

  As much as I don’t want to obey his command, I know that if I don’t, things will be worse than they need to be. I reluctantly look at Jill, who is watching me with wide eyes that look black against her white face.

  “She’s doing this to you. Don’t you forget that she chose herself.”

  I see the mallet move in the corner of my eye, and then the needle is being buried beneath my nail. A scream of agony erupts from my throat as pain like I’ve never felt engulfs my index finger and radiates up my hand and arm. I instinctively look down and see the sharp tip of the sewing needle sticking out of the base of my nail near the cuticle. Blood is soaking my finger, and the painful burning and throbbing is causing my fingers to tremble.

  He picks up another needle and pressed it to my middle finger.

  I can barely breathe, and my chest heaves when I realize I’m about to endure more. “No…” I say hoarsely.

  My screams ring out as he brutally imbeds sewing needles into all five of my fingers. Cold sweat has broken out across my forehead, and bile rises in the back of my throat. Animal-like noises are coming from me as I clamp my eyes closed tightly and try to breathe through the horrific pain.

  As if the brutality of what he’d done isn’t enough, I then endure more as he yanks each needle out, causing me to howl as tears streak my face. By the time he’s removed the last one, I’ve turned my head away and vomited on the cement floor.

  * * *

  I slowly stir, and pain slams into me immediately, reminding me of the torture I’d suffered. My teeth clench as I fight the urge to whimper, and I pry my eyelids apart, blinking.

  The basement is semi-dark as dull light filters through the small windows. It must be morning, and the sun is rising. Last night, after he’d tortured me, he’d packed up the needles and had gone upstairs, turning off the light. Complete darkness surrounded Jill and me for the night.

  There’s a hint of chill to the air, and I’m cold, but the pain doesn’t allow me to dwell on it too much. I inhale deeply and then slowly exhale, struggling to accept the pain but not focus on it. Unfortunately, I can’t resist looking at my injured fingers that are still secured to the chair’s arm. In the dim light, I can see my fingertips are bloody. Most of my nails are shredded down the center. The only nail that is still mostly intact is my index finger. Tears fill my eyes and clog my throat. This sick game is only going to get worse, and it’s all for my benefit.

  My eyes slide to Jill, who looks to be sleeping. He hadn’t touched her last night. When he’d packed up and left, I’d been stunned. He’s a brutal rapist and sadistic murderer, and yet he’s holding back his natural urges because he’s trying to brainwash me.

  I close my eyes and struggle with that knowledge. The only person that’s going to be punished is me; that way he can prove that Jill is only out for herself and doesn’t deserve my empathy. The part that frightens me the most is that it could possibly work. Was I jealous that she got to sleep on a soft mattress last night while I sat in this horrible chair, my body aching from lack of movement? Hell, yes. Do I resent her for it? Not yet. But there may come a time that I will.

  My stomach rumbles loudly in the quiet stillness of the room. I’m so hungry and thirsty. There’s also a gross film on my teeth from not being able to brush them, and it disgusts me. After vomiting last night, I have a sour taste in my mouth that turns my stomach every time I think about it.

  Stop thinking about what you want and start thinking about how to get out of this mess, I lecture myself. No one’s coming for us, and I’m not sure I’m going to be able to rely on Jill to help with an escape. She’d made it obvious last night that she’s weak and willing to hide in the background in hopes of avoiding my father’s wrath.

  It’s going to be up to me.

  I think of Holden, and a calmness takes hold of me. He’s my rock even in my thoughts. He believes in my strength, in my ability to save myself. I don’t want to let him down—I don’t want to let myself down. All I want more than anything else—even above food and water—is to have his arms wrapped around me again. My heart aches for him, and it gives me fuel to fight my father and his mind games.

  I know that if it weren’t for Holden, I’d be a mess and begging to be let go. I’d probably be promising anything just to end the misery, and I would have eventually lost my humanity. I was weak before I met Holden, but not anymore. He’d taught me to believe in myself and to realize that the only person holding me back—is me. There’s a way out of every situation, I just need to look for it. So that’s what I’m going to do. I’m going to remain alert and not allow the pain to distract me.

  So far, the only time I’m unbound is when I need to relieve myself, but he keeps that knife close at all times. I’ll keep watch for an opening, but I’m not going to bet my life on that single option. I chew my bottom lip and think over what I can do to get him to release my hands.

  My eyes slide to my ruined fingernails. The sun is brighter now, and the clear sight of the damage is horrifying. Deep breaths, I tell myself. I calm the emotions that were building inside me and debate what to do.

  Then it dawns on me that if my wounds aren’t cleaned, they could become infected. Infections can turn life-threatening, and he doesn’t want me dead.

  Hope begins to rise deep within me. If he cleans my fingers, he’ll need to set down the weapon. I might have an opening! I’m excited by this, and my mind races.

  * * *

  Jill’s still sleeping when the basement door eventually opens. The dreaded sound of his footsteps on the stairs reaches my ears. When he appears, he’s carrying a tray. “Time for breakfast!” he calls out almost jubilantly.

  Jill’s startled from sleep, and she props herself up on her elbows, her eyes wide as the sleep fades from them. She’s beginning to look ragged around the edges. Dark smudges have darkened the skin beneath her eyes, and her hair has lost its fullness, leaving it looking flat and greasy.

  I’m certain I’m looking just as bad, and my skin itches beneath my clothes from the dust in the air. A shower would be wonderful, but that won’t be happening anytime soon.

  My father steps further into the room, and a heavenly scent tickle
s my nose, and my mouth begins to water. It’s food—warm food. My eyes focus on the tray, but I can’t see what’s on it. All I know is it smells like warm donuts or cinnamon rolls.

  He turns, and I note the large knife tucked into the back of his pants. It’s a visible threat to us that if we become difficult, he’ll use it. He walks over to Jill, who shrinks away from him. “Morning, Jilly,” he greets. “Would you like to see what I brought?”

  She looks at him uncertainly, and when he sets the tray on the bed, she automatically focuses on it. I watch as her eyes widen with palpable excitement.

  “That’s right. That’s homemade French toast loaded with syrup. That can be your breakfast, or you can have this small bowl of cold, unsweetened oatmeal. Which would you prefer?”

  My heart sinks. Of course, I should have known.

  Jill’s eyes dart to me before she quickly looks away. I know what she’s thinking. She’s just as hungry as I am, and more than anything she wants that French toast. She bites her lip.

  “You have five seconds to make your decision, or you’ll get nothing,” he warns. “Five—four—”

  “The French toast!” Jill blurts, her face turning a bright shade of scarlet as she looks down at her hands with shame.

  My father leans over her, and she flinches as he briefly pets the crown of her head. “No worries, Jilly. Serenity still gets breakfast, too.” He picks up the plate of French toast and sets it beside her. A spoon is on the plate, and there are two glasses of water still on the tray. He hands one to Jill.

  As soon as he turns and walks towards me, Jill dives into her French toast, ignoring the spoon and using her hands.

  The table is still situated near my chair, and he sets the tray on it. The bowl of oatmeal is so small that it’ll be gone after four spoonfuls. He drags the stool over and sits down across from me. His eyes lock on mine as he picks up the bowl and spoon. “Morning, Serenity.”

  I remain defiantly silent.

  He dips the spoon into the oatmeal and brings it to my mouth. As much as I want to avoid the humiliation, I know I need food to stay strong. I open my mouth, and he feeds me the oatmeal. It’s disgusting, but I force myself to swallow it anyway.

  Silence fills the room as he continues to feed me until the oatmeal is gone. Then, he brings the cup to my lips, and I greedily drink every drop. When I’m finished, I lick my dry, cracked lips. “My fingers are going to become infected,” I warn him.

  He releases a sigh and sets the glass on the tray. “I know. I’ll take care of this and come back down to clean them.”

  I watch as he picks up the tray and glances at Jill. She’s finished with her breakfast, and he retrieves her plate and glass before disappearing up the stairs.

  Once he’s gone, Jill looks at me, and her eyes fill with tears. “I’m sorry,” she whispers.

  “It’s fine,” I say lightly.

  She looks like she wants to say more, but she rolls over onto her side and remains silent.

  When my father returns, he has cotton balls, ointment, and gauze. He removes the knife at his back and places it on the tabletop before sitting down. While he pulls out a few cotton balls from the bag, my excitement builds. This is exactly what I was hoping for. The knife is within reaching distance, and if he releases my right hand, I might be able to grab it.

  “I know what you’re thinking,” he says mildly as he squeezes ointment onto a giant cotton ball. He nods towards the knife. “That’s within your reach, but only if I release your hand.” His eyes lift to mine, and he smiles. “However, I can clean your fingers just fine without having to loosen a single wire.”

  My throat squeezes down on a scream of frustration.

  He notes my expression and tsks tsks me. “Serenity, if you’re going to play my game, you need to do it well.” He brings the cotton ball to my index finger and begins rubbing the ointment into the damaged nail, causing me to hiss with pain.

  He thoroughly cleans all my nails while I fight back tears and tightly clamp my lips together. Once he’s finished with the ointment, he winds the gauze around the tips. “All finished,” he announces. He glances at Jill, who’s laying there, watching us. “Do you need to use the bathroom?”

  She mutely nods.

  I watch as he rises to his feet, grabbing the knife and placing it behind his back once more. In order for Jill to use the bathroom, he has to release the cuff on her neck. She obediently rises from the bed and slides down her skirt and panties before squatting over the bucket.

  I look away to give her privacy and gaze down at my bandaged fingers. I wonder if I could talk her into making a grab for the knife the next time she’s free of the shackle. He’s much laxer with her than he is with me. Right now, it’s our only hope since I’m currently out of ideas.

  “Serenity?”

  I look up and find that Jill is shackled to the bed once more, and he’s bringing the bucket over to me. Reluctantly, I nod that I too need to relieve myself.

  He releases my hands, but he now has the knife close to my face as I straighten from the chair and wince as my back cracks. It aches just to stand, and as I drop my pants and squat over the bucket, my legs tremble from the strain of holding my weight.

  I mentally curse him for keeping the knife so close. I could try to grab it, but I wouldn’t be strong enough to pull it from his hand. There’s always a throat jab or poke to the eye, but the knife is too close, and I have a feeling I’d end up worse off than him. It’s not worth making a move until I know for certain that I can do some sort of damage.

  When I’m finished, he secures me to the chair and goes back upstairs, locking the door.

  Now, there’s nothing but the dreaded silence as the minutes slowly tick by.

  “Jill?” I ask after a while.

  She glances at me but says nothing.

  “We need to get out of here.”

  “Obviously,” she says sarcastically.

  “When he takes the shackle off you, he keeps the knife at his back,” I say carefully. “He wouldn’t be expecting it if you grab it. You’d be able to catch him off guard.”

  She stares at me as if I’ve lost my mind. “You want me to take the knife?”

  I struggle to gather patience. “He’s not going to let us walk out the front door unless he’s badly hurt…or dead. It’s the only way, Jill.”

  “What’s to stop him from grabbing the knife back and burying it in me?” she demands.

  My silence is her answer.

  “Exactly. At least right now I’m surviving.”

  I want to tell her that she’s not surviving and that eventually her own torture will begin. Unfortunately, I don’t think she’ll believe me, and I don’t want to anger her. As far as she knows, the amputated pinkie is the worst that’s going to happen to her. She’s eating up his insincere kindness even though he’d clearly stated this was a game. She’s stupid, or she’s delusional. Either way, she’s not going to be any help.

  Thirty-two

  Ren

  It’s a new morning, and with the new day comes a new injury. Last night, my father had returned to play another round of his sick ultimatum game. Because Jill had spoken out of turn the night before, and he hadn’t been able to formally give her an option, he’d decided that Jill would get a second chance. She could either accept the next punishment or pass on it and allow me to suffer it.

  I now have a broken toe.

  He’d tied my left ankle to the chair and had used pliers to break my big toe. I’ll never forget the cracking sound it’d made and the pain that had followed. Then, he’d set it so that it wouldn’t heal crooked. It’s currently duct-taped to my second toe to prevent any movement that would ruin its alignment.

  Between my still throbbing right hand, and now my aching toe, I’m becoming increasingly frustrated with Jill. Yes, she feels guilty when she chooses herself over me, but she still does it, and then refuses to speak to me—as if it’s my fault. I know it’s out of shame, but her silence just makes
it easier for resentment to build towards her. It’s happening, and I don’t know how to stop it.

  I’m thinking it’s time to tell her the truth about my father, but it could also backfire. I’m not certain she’s ready to hear the truth. If we’re going to get out of this together, we need to work together. So far, I haven’t been able to get her to realize that.

  In her mind, she thinks I’m trying to get her to make a move so that I won’t have to. It’s easy for her to remain docile because she’s not suffering any repercussions. My father has done an excellent job of letting her believe that she has the upper hand as the supposed ‘favorite.’

  Tonight, is going to be another ultimatum, and I’m trying to wrap my head around the fact that it’ll probably be my turn to choose. I don’t think Jill’s realized that yet, or else she has and she’s ignoring it until she has no choice but to face it.

  Tonight will be nothing more than a test. My father wants to see if I’m willing to accept a punishment for a woman that has done nothing to shield me from them. By accepting that punishment, I lose more mobility in my limbs and the possibility of escape becomes more difficult. What’s going to be more important? The opportunity to escape, or saving someone from torture?

  I already know what I must do, but that doesn’t make it any easier. Taking pain for someone else—someone that hasn’t once thanked me, is a bitter pill to swallow. But it’s better than the alternative. If I—no, when I escape my father and this horrible basement, I’ll have to live with my decisions. The past has taught me that once an ordeal is physically over, it’s still not over—not by a long shot. It’ll remain in the far depths of my mind no matter how hard I try to ignore it. I can’t live like that anymore.

  Putting myself before Jill will only send me spiraling back down into a pit of self-incrimination and regret. I’ll take her pain, because I know that if my father tortures her, he’ll easily break her. That doesn’t mean I like her. I try not to dwell on that last train of thought for very long though, or it’ll be counterproductive. The entire point of this game is to deny my father the satisfaction of me turning on Jill.