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EIGHT

GIRL

Today, I’m eating Mum’s home-made pizza. She makes the dough with yeast – I know that because I help her. We roll it out and wait. While we wait, we make the tomato sauce, slowly reducing fresh vine tomatoes with garlic, fresh basil and olive oil. Mum is a chef and she has tried so hard to teach me things. She said that nothing in life is as good as fresh, wholesome food.

As it comes together and the cheese grills, the kitchen is filled with the most amazing smell and my mouth waters. When I grow up, I want to be just like Mum. She said we can have our own restaurant – Mum and daughter making the best food ever. I can hang my artwork up in it to sell.

As I bite, I allow each flavour to roll around my tongue before I begin chewing. Appreciating every bite is what Mum and I do. We don’t watch movies while we eat, we savour our food. Mum says food needs to be enjoyed to its fullest. We are so alike it makes me want to cry. Did I say how much I love my mum?

Tears begin to roll down my cheeks as the dried bread and cheese cloys in my throat. All I want to do is go back in time and tell her I’m sorry. I told her I didn’t want her to pick me up after the school play. I said she’d embarrass me in front of my friends. If only I hadn’t been so mean to her.

I bet she’s glad I’m not there. Maybe I deserve this.

Him stroking my hair makes me want to shiver, but I suppress the movement. If I flinch, it will give me away. Right now, he’s feeding me and that’s all I can ask for. If he doesn’t come tomorrow, I will die down here.

‘Look at me,’ he says.

I don’t want to turn my head. I don’t want to pretend to smile, but if I don’t he’ll be angry and he’ll hurt me again.

Slowly, I turn my head with the best smile I have. ‘Thank you for the sandwich.’

He stares at me for too long, but I keep that smile going.

I wish I could say that he was a complete stranger, but he isn’t. I know him and I thought he was so nice when we first spoke.

He places a dress down on the bed: a blue pinafore he’s teamed up with a frilly, white blouse. I’m sure the dress will come down to my calves. Next to it, he places a thick pair of white tights and some flat pumps.

‘No girl of mine dresses like a slut. Put them on.’

I look around at the cell. The butterflies in my mind have long gone and the smell of pizza has been replaced by the scent of my own urine.

He leans back against the cold wall, his muscles taut and a stern look on his face. I don’t want to change in front of him. ‘Can you turn around, please?’

He smirks. Leaning forward, he grabs the neckline of my vest top and thrusts me against the wall. My feet dangle and I’m choking.

His dreams are my dreams.

I allow myself to go limp, to submit to his will, and that tells him he’s won. His grip loosens and I fall onto the stone floor, crushing my tailbone. I don’t yell or scream. I inwardly cry.

‘Change.’

As I peel off my vest top and mini skirt, I hold my hands over my bra and pants and stop. He hasn’t left me any underwear and I don’t want to take them off. I have never stripped in front of anyone except Mum. I have kissed two boys and I allowed one of them to touch my breast over the top of my school shirt, but that’s it.

Tears fill my eyes and I hope that he has one shred of decency. He reaches towards me and I let out a little shriek and close my eyes, but he doesn’t touch me. I open them again and he is now passing me the dress. I want to snatch it off him but I take it gently.

‘Thank you.’ Then I slip it over my head. He goes to take the cupcake scarf, but I grip it, my knuckles white.

He lets go of it. ‘Keep it for being a good girl.’

With that, he turns around and walks up the metal ladders and out of the hatch.

I break down.

I climb the rungs and try to push the hatch, like I have done several times now, but it is firmly locked. I climb back down, feeling the walls again, and I stop at the wall with the metal door in it. I bang, but all I can hear is the echo. My imagination runs wild as I try to picture what might be behind the door.

We’re underground. Maybe there’s a way out through that door. I don’t remember getting here. I don’t know if I’m in the country or a town.

I long to hear the birds singing. I miss cuddling my cat so much.

I run my hands all around the door, trying to find a weakness somewhere, but I’m not hopeful. No one can break down a locked metal door – no one!

That’s when I feel something sharp.

I pull at it and the tears spill out and my body shakes. I am holding a whole fingernail, and the dried brown around the edges must be blood. It’s painted in a chipped pink varnish.

I pound on the door, shouting.

The lights go off and a dot of a red night light is all I see. I bang on the door again. ‘Are you in there?’

The owner of the nail has to be behind the door. There are others, just like me, and I now know, I am not his first.