Page 19 of Silas

He stops in his tracks. I see the rage building. “You tellin’ meno, woman?”

“No! I’m—I’m just asking. Please, Jerry. Just tonight. Please?”

“You best do as I say, woman, or you’re gonna be sore in a lot more places than between your legs.” He palms himself. “Tell you what. I’ll give you a break tonight.”

I almost whimper in relief. “Thank you, Jerry. I’ll…I’ll make it up to you tomorrow. I promise.”

I reach for my nightgown, neatly folded on the hope chest at the foot of the bed.

He grabs my hand in a crushing grip on my wrist. “I didn’t say you could get dressed, Naomi.” I hear the cruelty in his voice.

“Jerry, I…you said—”

He forces my hand to his member. “I’ll give your pussy a rest. You’re gonna use your mouth.”

No, god no. He rarely bathes. He smells foul and tastes worse. Laying with him is preferable, and I think he knows that.

I feel something boiling inside me. “Jerry, please. I just want to go to bed.”

His grip on my wrist tightens until I feel my bones grinding together. “Last chance, Naomi. I’m feeling forgiving tonight, so I’m giving you one more chance before I punish you.” He squeezes until I’m dizzy with pain. “Bend over or get on your knees. Take your pick or I’ll pick for you.”

I’ve got nothing left. The pain means nothing. I live in pain, all day, every day. Ribs, cheek, nose, stomach. Sometimes he uses his belt on my thighs or backside, to punish me for any imagined slight or disobedience, and sometimes just because he wants to.

I can’t take anymore.

I can’t.

Iwon’t.

“No.” It’s a whisper, all I can manage.

But he hears it.

When his fist descends, I almost welcome it. The pain is always better than the anticipation.

It’s not long before I black out.

* * *

I wakeup abruptly and in agony. A lance of yellow light streams down on me from a few feet over my head. The air is thick, heavy, hot, and still, ripe with the scents of old urine and dust and mold. My ribs scream with every breath, pain so acute my lungs hitch. There are other injuries, but it’s my ribs that demand all my attention.

I’m in lockup—a ten-by-ten cell in the side of a hill, with sweating concrete walls and ceiling, and a bare dirt floor. The door is a three-inch thick slab of metal with a hole cut out a few inches down from the top; the latch is a simple steel bolt an inch thick. Papa’s makeshift jail. A militiaman or -woman caught misbehaving—drunk, fighting, etc.—will spend a night or so in here.

I spend more time in here than anyone else. If Papa’s already hurt me too badly to risk killing me with another beating, he’ll toss me in here to punish me for backtalk, disrespect, hesitation to obey, being too slow to carry out orders; Jerry’s tossed me in here a few times, for failing to show him the proper enthusiasm in bed, usually—but only after beating me bloody and senseless. Like now.

How long will I be in lockup? I rebelled against my husband. I’m honestly surprised I don’t have more broken bones.

Time floats and stretches in lockup, distorts and twists, lengthening like pulled taffy and compressing like a finger on a fast-forward button. Pain is all that keeps me grounded in reality. I feel insects crawling on me—roaches, ants, spiders, centipedes. It hurts too much to move, so I ignore the creepy crawling of their passage over my feet and fingers and legs and arms.

The square of light slides across the room, fading from yellow to gold to red-orange, and then as darkness falls the square becomes silver from the moon and the stars.

Again.

And again.

Days? The thirst in my throat is desperate, furious. I’m delirious with pain, starved, and dehydrated.

Just when I think they’re finally going to just let me die, a tiny square panel in the bottom of the door slides open: a plastic-wrapped sandwich is shoved through, followed by a bottle of cold water.