Page 11
Maeve
23 Years Old
He placed the pill on my tongue and handed me his glass of whiskey to chase it down. I took a large gulp of it before passing it back. He took a sip from it but kept his eyes on me. They flickered briefly on my lips.
“Some of Daddy’s friends are coming tonight. You will make them so happy,”
he said, rubbing my nipple.
“I will, Daddy,”
I said with a smile.
“The pill always helps.”
“I know it does,”
he said.
“These are special friends, so make sure you do everything they ask you to do.”
“Yes, Daddy,”
I said before hesitating.
“You won't be here?”
“No, I won’t. Daddy has some work to do,”
he said before he pushed me off his lap and onto the bed.
“Be a good girl for them.”
I watched his back as he left the room before crawling under the bed to keep chipping away at the ever-growing hole beneath it. Every day, I added a little dirt and pieces of rubble in the waste bin since it was always taken by the liner, and he never inspected it.
**
These men were different. It was rare to get a whole group of men who reminded me of the original devil. Good old dad was still playing games. Five bare-chested men piled through the door. One of them moved the table close to the bed and placed a bag beside it.
My room had been upgraded with a wardrobe since Master decided I needed more clothes when I fell ill one winter.
There wasn’t room for all the men’s clothes, so it made sense that they removed most of them upstairs.
It took me a while to get over what he did.
The irony was that having Bear with me helped ease my loneliness.
The sick bastard enjoyed me acting like a child when he went into deep ‘Daddy’ mode.
They all wore expensive trousers and shoes.
Their ages ranged from mid-thirties to forties.
If I didn’t know better, Master was either prostituting me, or these were his business clients.
The drink and coke came out.
My fake smile almost slipped when I saw the quantities.
A pile of condoms were next.
Three of the men walked toward me, blocking my view. Two of them began to unfasten their trousers. The third one crouched down and slapped my breasts. When I didn’t react, he smiled.
“Athill was right. This one will be able to take everything we give her,”
he murmured before he scowled.
“No names, dickhead,”
one of the men removing his trousers said.
It took a decade and two slip-ups for me to find out his name. Jacob Athill.
“Get some coke for her. She won’t remember a thing after a few snorts,”
the man beside me said.
**
The door creaked open. Footsteps. Cigarette smoke and stale cologne slithered in before he did. I don't move. Can't. The mattress beneath me was damp with sweat, blood or worse. My body felt like a shattered vase hastily glued back together.
“Well, well.”
His voice is a razor dipped in honey.
“Look at you.”
A shoe prodded my hip, rolling me onto my back. The ceiling light stabs my eyes. His shadow looms over me, a grotesque parody of concern as he tsks.
“God, the state of you—”
he said, crouching to grip my chin. His thumb smeared something wet across my cheekbone. It wasn't tears.
“You look like a used-up crack whore.”
My eyes felt so heavy when I tried to open them again. I hurt everywhere when I tried to move. He stood over me with a smile.
“Just like your mother.”
The words hit like a cleaver to the chest.
“Open your mouth, doll,”
Master said.
He placed two pills in my mouth and placed a bottle of water against my lips.
“Painkillers,”
he said as I drank the water.
“You had a fun night. One of my friends recorded some of the events. I’ve left you some more painkillers and cream. You will need to wait until I return from work for a shower.”
It must have been early morning because he wore a robe. With a shiver, I pulled the blanket over me, but my muscles protested at the movement. He walked away, but not before I saw the mess on the floor and the table—empty bottles, ripped condom wrappers, and glasses strewn everywhere.
The light switched off.
“Daddy loves you,”
he said, and I didn't need to wait long because it came.
His mocking laugh.
The sound curled around me, suffocating me. It’s not the laugh of a man who finds something funny. It’s the laugh of a man who’s already won.
I listened to his footsteps going up the stairs, but I slid my hand under the pillow to feel if the silver pen knife I stole was still there. My fingers curled around the cold metal. Jacob Athill’s days were numbered. My body might have grown weaker, and I probably looked like the crack whore my mother was.
However, Maeve O’Neill was still alive and well inside my brain.
**
The drug-induced crash came when I woke up. I cleaned the room up, hid the knife, drank the last of the scotch and took more painkillers. The cream helped me internally. There was blood but that was to be expected.
The dark, depressing thoughts made me want to use the knife on myself rather than the devil I was trapped with. They were the same questions.
What if my dad had lived? Or if I’d had a different mother? What could I have achieved in my life for the last seven years instead of being trapped with the devil?
The hole in the wall was taking too long. I considered the best part of the body to stab and thought of the girl. The neck was softer than the chest. More veins and less bone.
The devil would tire of me, and I would end up like the girl. He had no regrets over killing her and would have none about killing me. The heartless bastard wasn't human.