Page 28 of Jazz

I told myself I’d only close my eyes for a second. Just a second, then I’d be strong enough to tear free, strong enough to run. The blindfold already gave me darkness, and that darkness pulled at me, thick and suffocating. My chest rose, fell. The stink of rot clung to the mattress, wrapping around me, whispering of everything I didn’t want to think about. Still, I sank into it, my body heavy, my brain screaming muffled warnings, but I was too far gone to stop.

Sleep wasn’t safety. I knew that. But right now, it was the only escape I had left.

*****

I don’t know what woke me. Maybe it was the fall, my stomach plummeting like I’d just been chucked off a cliff. Or the sudden realisation I’d succumbed to sleep. Proper sleep. Back in that room, up on that hook, I might have snatched a few minutes here and there. But every time I’d moved slightly, my body swayed, fresh pain coursing through my muscles. I’d had no real sleep, sleep exhaustion just around the corner.

But now, suddenly, every part of me was awake.

I lay still, slowing my breathing, straining into the dark of the blindfold, allowing every other sense to take over. The smell was the same. Musty. Dirty. Staling rot. Nothing made a sound. Not even the faintest sign of breathing, apart from my own. And the heart that hammered away in my chest, warning of a danger. Something I couldn’t see.

I wriggled my arms, the rope burning at the flesh, grating at the wounds in my skin. Heat moved down my arms as if my nerve endings had only just woken up. My arms were pulled into a ‘Y’ shape, stretched out and attached to cold metal. A metal headboard. My legs were pulled out at the same angle, splayed and tied. The ropes were tight. No give. No ability to move or turn. They’d left me with my legs and arms spread wide open and no slack to move from this position. I was more vulnerable now than on that fucking hook.

The thought swelled in my brain. Vulnerable. Nothing I could do. Whatever they did to me now. I could do absolutely fucking nothing to prevent it.

Fear slid in slow and slick, but it didn’t scream. It settled inside me, a cold film under my skin that made my limbs feel borrowed. It started as a tightness behind my eyes, then spread down my throat until swallowing felt like an effort. My body had already betrayed my brain. The tremor in my fingers, the shallow breaths, the subtle dampness of sweat on my forehead, cooling instantly in the air. The ropes bit harder through the wounds each time I shifted, and that pain fanned the fear into a louder thing, a thing that wanted me small and quiet and useless.

Count the seconds. Count the breaths. Name the sounds. Don’t let the panic take shape. Fear liked names; if I kept it to numbers and lists, it stayed a thing I could measure, not a thingthat could swallow me. I clenched my jaw until my teeth ached, forced my shoulders down, and found a place inside my brain that was stubborn and cold and refused to believe I was finished. Even every nerve ending was tired, but I would not hand them the sight of me folding. Not yet. Not that easy.

Something moved. Something made a sound. I would have sat up, searching into the blindfold. I couldn’t. I could only lie and wait. Count the seconds. Count the sounds. Count the steps. That’s what they were. Long strides. No effort to mask the sound. They stopped a few metres away. Something clicked. No clunked. It was a deeper, hollower sound. A lock. I could hear it turning now. Count the breaths. Count the steps. They were softer now. Like they were trying to walk more quietly. Creeping. But that smell didn’t creep. It stalked. It assaulted. That same fire-laced spice, warm and bitter like smoke from a match just struck. I knew it. I always knew it. Didn’t matter if I was hanging on a hook or flat on this filthy mattress; the second it touched me, it was him. Chase. It always was. The scent that clung to his skin and clothes, that shadow of pepper and heat, threaded with something dark that stayed in the back of my throat. Familiar, hated, impossible to mistake.

And too close. So close it crowded the fear already swelling in my chest, wrapping around me the way his arms had. It was him. It was always him.

“I know you’re there,” I called out, my voice sounding much stronger than I felt.

“Got you something to eat.”

“Not hungry.” That was a lie.

“You haven’t eaten in days.”

“That’s cos you fucking hung me from a hook. And you didn’t fucking feed me.”

“Well, I’m feeding you now.” He answered.

There was a command in his voice. In that deep velvety tone. He’d held me easily when he’d carried me out of that other space and then held me down when I struggled just as easily. Tall, I assumed. His chest had been hard, bulging as he’d closed his arms around me.

“Don’t want it.” I answered.

“Don’t care.”

“I can hardly fucking eat it in this position.”

“I’ll help you.”

He was going to let me up, untie the rope. But I needed my eyes. I needed to see to escape. So I could pick the right moment and run like fuck.

The bed dipped; his weight dropped beside me. He cradled my head up, propping it forward, and then I felt something against my lips.

“What the fuck?” I spat.

“It’s a fucking sandwich. Now eat it.”

“Fuck off.”

He sighed, already exasperated. “Jazz,” he warned. “I need you to eat this.”

“Why?” I shouted now, fear and panic quickly morphing to anger. “Why do I need to fucking eat it?”