by Matt Shaw
“No. I won’t.” He singles a small silver key, the smallest in the bunch, and uses it to unlock the cuffs. Don’t sit up. Wait for him to invite you to sit up.
He looks at my ankle, “Did you want me to carry you downstairs?”
“I’ll try and walk.”
I need to get used to walking on my bad ankle, no matter how much it hurts. He helps me sit up and takes a step back, ready to catch me should I stand and fall.
I stand. I wobble. I don’t fall. It hurts though; I don’t dare put all of my weight on it. “Are you okay?” he asks with a genuine look of concern.
No, I’m not.
“Yes, I am.”
“Are you sure you don’t want me to carry you?”
I don’t want you to touch me.
“Perhaps you could help support me?” I ask begrudgingly. He takes my arm and we walk from the room – slowly. Pain shoots from my ankle with every tender step.
Ignore it. Don’t give in to the pain. Don’t show him how much it hurts.
At the top of the stairs and they’ve never looked so treacherous – the noisy stairs that played their part in foiling my escape. I don’t think I can do it. There’s too many stairs.
“Can you carry me?”
He doesn’t need asking twice. He simply scoops me up in his arms, his skinny arms. I’m worried that he won’t be able to take my weight and we’ll both plummet to the ground floor and land in a crumpled heap.
Thankfully his arms don’t give in and we do make it to the bottom. He doesn’t put me down; instead he walks us through to the dining room where the table’s set up different to his usual standards.
In the centre of the table is the usual candle. The paper plates are situated at either end of the table – the same place he normally puts them, with the plastic knives and forks placed next to them. On my plate though is an envelope – sealed. He puts me down in my chair and sits opposite me.
“What’s this?” I ask referring to the envelope.
“For you.” Obviously. I nervously pick it up. I can’t help but wonder what he has in store for me this time. Is it something else to slow my progress in getting out?
“I’ll go and get our dinner,” he stands and leaves the room as I tear the envelope open and pull out the card. I get the impression that the gesture of the card has even embarrassed him. A single red rose is painted on the front of the small card with a solitary word written underneath in gold embroidered letters: ‘Sorry’. The inside of the card is blank except for a neatly scribbled message:
‘I’m sorry for all the bad things that I have done to you. I’m sorry for not being enough for you and I’m sorry that I can’t let you see your mum and dad. I wish I was enough.’
I don’t know what to make of it. I don’t know what I am supposed to say to him when he does come back into the room. Think of something. Anything.
Too late!
Before I’ve thought of anything, he walks back into the room holding out two bowls of food – some sort of soup.
“Thank you for the card,” I say.
He doesn’t say anything back. He just puts the bowl of soup in front of me and the other bowl in front of his own seat where he sits down.
“Did you hear me?” I ask.
“After dinner, I’ll let you go to your mum and dad.”
What? Don’t register any emotions yet. It could be a trick.
Maybe I even misheard him. My brain twisting what he actually said to something that I’d like him to say.
“What?”
“If that’s what you want. I’ll let you go.”
He looks sad. Would he really just let me go? After everything we’ve been through, he’d just let me walk out the front door? I don’t believe him. It can’t be that easy.
“I won’t try and stop you.”
A trick? Is it a trick to see how I’d react? If I say that I want to leave, he’ll continue using the restraints? If I say I want to stay – I get free reign of the house again?
“I’d like for you to stay but I see that I can’t make you.”
“No. You can’t make me,” I agree. Careful. Don’t fall into his trap. “But I want to stay.”
What am I doing? You’re proving him you can be trusted and that you do love him.
“What?” My answer was obviously not what he was expecting.
“I told you that I just wanted you to meet my mum and dad. I said that I loved you. I do love you,” play the game. Make him believe.
“You do love me?”
“Yes. I don’t want to go anywhere. If you don’t want to leave the house or let me see my old family then I understand. If never seeing them again is what I have to do to show you how much I love you, or keep you as a partner – that’s what I’ll do.”
“Really?”
“Yes. I’m sorry about earlier. I get it now though. It doesn’t matter. You matter. You matter to me.”
He smiles at me – the first time since hurting me. Bingo.
I pick the card up and tear it up in front of him. His face temporarily drops before I explain to him, “And I don’t need your apologies. I just need your love.”
The smile creeps back onto his face. “Your soup’s getting cold,” he says.
Everything is back to normal.
Our First Night Together
“I’m sorry.”
He’s sorry. He’s sorry. He’s not as sorry as I am. I was hoping that I’d be free enough to plot how to get the keys from him, and act upon my ideas tonight but it’s going to be impossible cuffed to the bed.
It’s going to be even more impossible all the time I’m cuffed to the same bed he’s going to be sleeping in.
“Is this necessary?” I ask as he takes his top off, getting ready for bed himself.
“I’d be more comfortable. For now.”
“Is this how it’s going to be?” He climbs into the bed next to me and kisses me on the cheek before turning onto his back.
“For now.”
How long is ‘for now’? “How long is for now?” I think and ask.
“Until the next stage of our relationship.” I wonder what the next stage of our relationship is going to entail considering all I’ve been through already. I wonder if I would have been at the ‘next stage’ if I hadn’t tried to run.
“I just thought we were going to spend our first night together cuddling,” I say hoping that he’ll release me.
“We can.”
He rolls over, to face me, and cuddles in close to me.
Get the fuck off. I’d love to say that.
“You know I’m not going to run,” I persist. He knows that I’m not going to run. He had to carry me downstairs and back up the stairs because of my swollen ankle. How am I supposed to run anywhere?
“I’m sorry, but this is how it has to be. For now.” His voice has changed in tone – a tone that suggests now is a good time for me to stop being persistent.
“Okay.”
It’s not okay. It’s far from ‘okay’.
He kisses me on the cheek again. “Night, night.”
I don’t return the kiss, “Good night.”
He rolls over again and flicks a switch, killing the light on the bedside cabinet, before rolling back over and kissing me again – cuddling in to my side and knocking my ankle.
“I love you,” he says, hopefully his final words of the night.
The darkness in the room hides the look of hate that flashes in my eyes. I shut my eyes and wish my mum and dad a ‘good night’. In my mind, they wish me a ‘good night’ too. A genuine smile creeps onto my face.
“I can’t wait for the morning,” his voice shatters the quietness.
The smile fades from my face and the dark room suddenly seems a lot darker than before.
I have to get out.
I try and roll onto my side but he pulls me closer, stopping my efforts.
I feel more trapped than before. Think. Think.
All Good Things...
For the first time since we’ve been a couple, we’ve woken up in the same bed and it feels great. As I watch her sleep I can’t help but feel as though I’ve finally achieved what I set out to achieve. She looks at peace. She makes me feel at peace.
It would be better without the morning breath but it’s still a good start.
I want to wake her up. I can’t wait for the two of us to start our day together. Let her sleep. Perhaps creep from the room and get her breakfast ready? No. I want her to wake up next to me as I did, next to her. I want her to feel what I felt when I first opened my eyes.
Love.
She’s stirring. Don’t stare. It might freak her out to know that you’ve been watching her sleep. Why would it? Don’t be stupid. She wouldn’t mind. Her left eye opens first, followed by the right eye that’s a little sticky from sleepy dust.
“Morning.” I lean in and kiss her. She’s wide eyed. She’s awake. “How did you sleep?” I ask. A polite question, I feel.
“You snore.” I laugh until I realise she’s being serious.
“I’m sorry,” what else can I say? She tries to bring her arm down but the cuff stops her.
“Can you get this off, please?” she asks. She seems grumpy. Perhaps she isn’t a morning person. I climb from the bed and walk to the radiator where my trousers are hanging. Inside the left hand pocket are the keys that I need to free her. They don’t take long to find and I walk back, to unlock her.
“Thank you,” she rubs her wrists as I put the key ring around the chain on my neck.
“Do I get a morning kiss?” I ask. I haven’t had one yet and I crave it.
“Sorry,” she kisses me on the cheek.
A kiss on the cheek, what am I – her mother? I’d jokingly ask but I feel any conversations about mothers could open a can of worms that leads to nothing but more trouble for us. I’ll settle for the cheek. For now.
“Do I have to have the cuffs again tonight?” she asks as she still rubs her wrists.
I don’t know. It depends how the day goes. Lie to her. Improve her mood, “No. It was just for our first night whilst you got used to being in the same bed as me.”
It’ll be for as long as I deem necessary.
“I didn’t sleep well. It was uncomfortable.”
“I’m sorry.” I kiss her on the cheek, “What would you like for breakfast?”
She turns away from me and stretches her arm, “Just some toast, please.”
I can’t help but feel a little disappointed this morning. I was hoping for a little romance; our first proper morning together – I feel it should be celebrated.
Don’t force her. Let her come to you.
“Toast it is.” I kiss her again and leave the room wearing nothing but my underwear.
I don’t feel the cold air as I walk across the landing and down the stairs, towards the kitchen with a skip in my step. I feel a different kind of warmth flowing through my veins – warmth that I’m not used to feeling in my skinny body.
Just as I don’t feel the cold air against me, I also don’t realise that I’m whistling a tune to myself; a tune that I don’t recognise or particularly like – an annoyingly catchy, happy tune that I can’t shake from my thoughts.
“Toast?” I say out loud to myself.
I pull the bread from the second row of plastic containers, on the right hand side, and drop it into the toaster that’s on the floor due to lack of space on the sideboard. I can’t believe she only wants toast. I wanted our first breakfast together to be special and I struggle to think of a way to make ‘toast’ appear special, or desirable.
I should have locked her in the bedroom. I need the butter and that’s in the fridge. The fridge is in the garage. It’s okay. She won’t come downstairs. Her ankle is still swollen. If she does try and come downstairs, I’ll hear her anyway. Just be quick.
I should have locked the bedroom.
Before I go to the garage, I listen carefully for her. I hear nothing. She isn’t trying to get out of the bed. I have time. Taking the chain from around my neck, I open the garage door and am instantly hit by the smell.
I need more air freshener. Perhaps I didn’t think everything through properly. The air freshener is stored to the left of the garage door, immediately as you walk in. I kept it there, in easy reach, for times such as this. Taking a can of the lemon scent, I spray my way past the bodies, past the red Mercedes, and to the first fridge, of many, where I find the butter. I spray my way back to the kitchen, giving Young Susie a little wave as I pass what’s left.
The door is shut and locked. Keep spraying. Just a little while longer. Be sure that the smell is gone. A few more minutes on the nozzle empties the can and kills the room with the lemon scent – even masking the smell of the burning toast.
Damn it.
It’s only slightly blackened. With some frantic scraping, with the plastic knife, and more butter than you’d normally put on a slice of toast – I’m sure it’ll be fine. I can’t afford to waste any food. We are already halfway down the first stack.
Maybe, in the future, I should make smaller portions.
A mental note to myself – make smaller portions. She rarely eats it all anyway.
I grab a hold of the toast and put it on a plate before returning upstairs, singing the same irritating song as before. Where do I know it?
“Morning!” she shouts at me as soon as I set foot into the bedroom, “I’m sorry about earlier, if I seemed a little grumpy. I’m not a morning person.”
She’s beaming now.
“I guessed that,” I smile at her, pleased for her sudden change in mood. I was worried that she was going to put a dampener on our day. Again.
“Did you get my toast?”
I hand her the toast and she pulls me down to her level before kissing me full on the lips – a slight shock, but enjoyable.
“Thank you.” She starts to tuck in with an appetite that suggests she hasn’t eaten for months, “I’m glad you burnt it slightly, I like it like that.”
Good coincidence.
I climb into bed next to her and join her under the thick duvet, careful not to accidentally knock her ankle.
“Aren’t you having any breakfast?” she asks as she takes another bite of toast.
“I don’t eat breakfast. I don’t enjoy it that much. It feels as though my body hasn’t woken up properly and struggles to digest it.”
“But how will you keep your strength up?”
“For what?” I ask – ever hopeful.
“For this.”
She drops the plastic plate to the floor and pushes me onto my back, climbing on top of me.
“What are you doing?” I ask half-heartedly. I think I know what’s coming and I don’t want to put her off.
“Ssh,” she whispers into my ear, “it’s my turn now.”
She kisses me hard on the mouth. I wonder - do I bring up anything about a condom?
...Come To An End
Her kisses feel nice against my skin. My neck. My shoulders. My chest.
Wet. Warm. A playful little nibble on my nipple causing it to harden.
Think of someone else. Kiss him all over – past the keys on the chain around his neck. Get him excited. Make him hard. It’ll be easier if it’s hard. This is the only way.
I shut my eyes as she kisses my stomach. Her kisses feel full of passion.
Tenderness.
Love.
I wish I had a drink by the bed.
Something to wash the taste from my mouth.
I look up to his face - his eyes are closed tight.
That makes it easier. I close mine.
She’s taking more time around my stomach.
Kissing it all over.
Running her tongue around my belly button.
Teasing me.
Putting it off.
Delaying it.
Don’t delay it.
It’s the only way.
Get it over with.
Th
is is it. She’s moving lower. I feel hot air over my penis. Teasing me.
What are we waiting for? I open my eyes and look at her. She’s looking at me. “Do it, please.” I beg.
She slides her mouth over my penis. Her wet mouth –warm, snug. She slides down the shaft to the base. Her hands cup my balls firmly.
