Page 2 of Fear No Hell

Calliope

Ilay prone in mussed sheets, staring blankly at the ceiling.

Standing next to me, looming over the bed like a nightmare come to life, is Arthur, buckling his pants and glaring at me.

As if his most recent failed attempt at inspiration—botched by erectile dysfunction caused by what I can only assume is drunkenness—is my fault.

“You couldn’t be bothered to inspire me one more time, could you?” he spits.

“Fucking bitch.” His words are a sneer as he snatches the half-drunk can of beer from the nightstand. “Don’t even give a shit that it’s my retirement party. All you care about is you. Selfish cunt.”

Angry words rise in my throat like bile, almost flying from my lips, cutting and profane, but I manage to hold them back. Barely. Eighteen years ago, I may have said them. Gods, ten years ago, I might have said them.

As the years after Sam fell down the staircase passed, Arthur grew more erratic.

Crueler. More ruthless. Before, he was careful that the only injuries he caused were sexual or emotional.

After that day, though, his wedding ring came off, and he started drinking.

Then he started leaving the door to my prison open.

And late one night, after he forced me onto the bed, he struck me in the face for the first time.

Until then, he said I was a beauty, so he left my face alone.

Despite knowing any injury to my body would heal, I was thankful I didn’t have to worry about any aesthetic damage, which would take resources away from more important pain.

That way, at least my magic could focus on resolving the internal damage he subjected me to time and time again.

When he left the room that night, though, the attic door wide open and my cuff so tightly applied the skin was raw within seconds, bleeding within minutes, he had wrecked my body.

My blood stained the bedding around and underneath me, the sheets more red than white.

My cursed powers healed me in time for his next visit.

That night marked a new type of brutal mistreatment at this monster’s hands.

Tonight, it all seems to be coming to an end. After months of declining health, including a complete inability to get the erection he needs to force inspiration from me, Arthur Francis is finally retiring. Which means his reign of terror over me must finally be coming to an end.

That knowledge, more than anything, is what forces words from my mouth. “What does it matter what I think? Or whether I care?” I snap. “It’s not like you need me.”

His eyes flick to me, surprise in their depths. It has been a long time since I’ve spoken to him. Longer still since I said anything to him other than profanities. “No, no. I won’t need you anymore. But you’ll be useful one last time, beauty.”

I blink in alarm. What does he have planned? Goosebumps rise along my skin, a warning that anything Arthur thinks I’m useful for is probably horrible for me.

All of his anger seemingly gone, he pats my ankle before staggering drunkenly to the door. “I’ll be back up to see you after the party tonight. Be good while I’m gone.” And then he’s gone, the heavy wooden door swinging shut behind him.

But I don’t hear it latch.

I squint at the door, staring at it in contemplation until long after the sun sets and the sounds of the party downstairs have grown loud enough for me to hear all the way up the stairs. No one can hear me up here.

I shake my wrist thoughtfully. The metal clunks dully against the headboard, but that’s not what catches my attention. It’s the slight delay of the cuff hitting the other side of my wrist when it struck the headboard. That means… that means there may be a gap.

If the door is actually unlocked, and I could get my hand through the cuff… I’m sure I wouldn’t be the only scantily dressed woman downstairs.

I wince. That’s a lot to leave to chance, but staying risks Arthur having something worse planned for me.

I can’t stop the circle his words keep taking in my head—you’ll be useful one last time, beauty.

There’s no way this man who has tortured me, who has raped and abused me, who has imprisoned me for almost 40 years, stopping only because his body failed him rather than some innate morality, doesn’t have something horrible in store for me.

His beauty. His muse. His trapped fucking bird.

I can’t stay here. No. It’s not that I can’t.

I won’t. I won’t stay for whatever twisted punishment he sees fit to mete out.

For the first time, I see a clear chance to escape.

My one perfect opportunity. Wiggling the hand cuffed to the headboard, I prepare myself for disappointment.

I probably made up the looseness from before.

He always cinches it tightly, often so hard it restricts the blood flow or takes skin off.

But tonight… At the second shake of my wrist in as many minutes, I feel it give again. Not enough to indicate it’s unlocked but enough for me to know it’s loose.

Surging to my knees, I spin around, fixing my gaze on the metal cuff.

It’s sedate and boring looking, no exterior indication of the immense power it holds—enough to hold an immortal muse captive.

I tug slightly and nearly cry in glee at the small gap of space I see between my wrist and the hated cuff.

I pull harder, hoping against hope that it will separate from the chain after all these years.

It holds steady. A second tug, this time harder, and the chain clatters ominously against the wall.

I flinch, freezing as I peek over my shoulder at the door. Fear bubbles in my throat, but I beat it back. Minutes pass with me kneeling statue-like on the bed, waiting to see if anybody is going to investigate the harsh sound that’s better suited to a dungeon than a house in the suburbs.

No one comes.

Fixing my hands around the links, I lean back and, with all my strength, pull at the chain, hoping against hope it will break with more force applied to it.

Instead, it lays in my hands, stubbornly whole.

I bite my lip uncertainly, flexing the hand that’s cuffed.

There’s enough room for me to get my wrist through—my heart leaps in my chest—but it catches before my knuckles can slip through.

Cold anger flows through me, and I pull harder, uncaring at how loudly the chain is clanking as my knuckles catch over and over again. No. A snarl slips from my mouth at the nearness of freedom. It’s so close.

My skin feels like it’s crawling as awareness flows through me at just how close I am to freedom. It’s only a matter of inches. My vision narrows, blackness filtering in along the edges until all I can see is that filthy, steel bracelet. I want out. I want to be free.

I lean back, eyes locked on my hand as I pincer my fingers together and drag backwards. Sharp pain lances through my thumb as it bends impossibly inward, curling unnaturally into my palm. The cuff hits my knuckles.

Letting loose a screech born of rage and panic, I wrench my arm backwards, the rough metal biting into my skin, tearing into it, ripping away long, bloody strips as, with one final tug, my hand pulls free of the chain that has bound me for 38 years.

I crash backwards, tumbling off the end of the bed into an ungraceful heap at the sudden force of having full range of motion that now has no place to go but through me.

Holy Mother Hera. It worked.

Raising my arm to take in the damage, I hiss at the sight that greets me. Mutilated flesh, a likely disjointed thumb, blood draining down my arm towards my elbow… but none of that matters. All that matters is that I’m free.

A hysterical laugh burbles out of me. I’m finally fucking free. As I stand, a ferocious grin turns up the corners of my mouth.

My arm falls limply to my side as I stumble to the door, my feet passing over soft carpet they’ve never tread before.

Taking a deep breath, I check the door, giggling when I see that I was right.

The bolt didn’t latch when Arthur left. I tug on the handle with my good hand; the door opens easily, creaking slightly on its no longer quite so well-oiled hinges.

One of the many things that Arthur stopped caring about after that day all those years ago.

I slip down those cursed stairs, the sound of my feet falling on the wood covered by the peeling laughter and music coming from the party below.

Even though I don’t know the layout of the house, I figure I can get out easily enough.

No one should notice a small, underfed woman, no matter that I’m bleeding, mutilated, and barely clothed.

It will be fine, I’m sure.

Maybe if I tell myself that enough times, I’ll believe it.

I come to the last step after what feels like hours. Although I can hear the party more clearly from here, the quick glance I sneak in either direction doesn’t reveal anybody in the narrow hallway where the staircase ends. Nobody here to see my escape so far.

I slip down the corridor, heading towards the right where most of the noise seems to be coming from.

At the end of the hall, I find another staircase leading down to the first floor.

Unlike the one outside of my prison, which was walled on either side, this one is open with only a steel railing blocking it from the eyes of the people I can see milling below.

Any movement on the steps would be extremely noticeable.

Momentary panic bubbles through my veins, erasing all of my earlier confidence.

How in Tartarus am I going to get out of here?

I don't know anything about this house beyond the attic and what I can see from my perch near the the staircase.

I chew nervously on my thumbnail, passing through ideas and discarding them as quickly as they arise.