She had saved the counting of each wall for next week. She could spend a day on each one, counting and recounting the patterns of dressed stone masonry that looked like any classic dungeon complete with the rusty iron staples and hanging chains that should have held a shackled skeleton, forgotten. She hadn't even tried gouging out the mortar with her own irons: that would be a waste of time and energy. Maybe she'd save that for next week, too.
She wondered if weeks held any meaning. They had taken her watch right at the first, and there wasn't a window to give her hints to day or night. The light dimmed on an unknown schedule but never went completely dark. Sometimes she felt as if her life had been twisted onto one of those endless loops she'd made in geometry class in high school.
All her meals were identical, and their timing didn't seem to have any relationship to the light. No clue there. All Padric ever gave her was small fragments of brown bread and hard yellow cheese and a cup of murky, flat-tasting water--about what she'd eat for a light snack at home. She didn't need that hole in the floor much; nothing was left over when her gut got done with the crumbs.
The cold iron ate at her wrists and ankles, gnawing red sores when she paced. Dougal worried about them, during his infrequent visits--asked her not to hurt herself, not to scar herself. He healed them with a touch, whenever she held still enough for him to touch her. Padric was her real jailer, and he only sneered at her. Whatever fear her curse had laid on him was now dead and buried. He'd seen how weak she was, unable to back up her words with action.
She shivered. She took the coarse wool blanket off her bunk and wrapped it around her shoulders, huddling her warmth to herself. The fabric scratched her bare skin, itchy and crawling with her own filth. The stone cell was far too cold for a bra and panties, but Padric refused to give her back her jeans and shirt. He told her she could wear a dress like a proper woman or wear nothing at all like the whore she was.
Dougal and Padric played good-cop, bad-cop. She'd read enough stories to know the routine. One cop beats the poor slob senseless with a rubber hose, the other one comes in and screams bloody murder at his partner and gives the suspect a cup of coffee or a shot of booze from a smuggled pocket flask and wants to be a friend. Repeat and vary, as needed.
Guess who got the alleged perpetrator's confession? Next prisoner, they swapped roles.
Of course, what Dougal wanted was her ass. She'd see him in hell, first. If only they'd let her sleep . . .
The lock snapped behind her, and Padric filled the doorway, snarling. "Blanket stays on bed! You know rules!"
He pointed toward the corner of the cell, the one with the hole in the floor. Bath time again, with a bucket of water that always felt like it came from the bottom end of a glacier. As usual, he carried some harsh soap, a scrap of towel, and a brush fit for scrubbing elephants. She was supposed to strip and wash, wash all over, while he watched.
It was calculated humiliation, just like shitting and pissing in full view, like an animal. She wondered what would happen when her period started. At least that would give her a measure of time men couldn't steal.
Padric could talk better than his ape-man impersonation. She'd overheard him, once. The whole fucking thing was an act, Dr. Frankenstein's Igor.
She turned toward the corner, her shoulders slumped in submission, and then spun back using her chains as a flail. One link caught him across the cheek, and she saw a glint of blood before his fist smashed into her breast, setting it on fire. She staggered back against the wall, whimpering. Another fist in her gut drove the breath from her body and then a third blow caught her just as she started to gasp. The stone floor jolted her knees.
He hit her with precise, scientific blows on nerves and muscles, using a sadistic sense of what hurt worst for a woman. He's an expert, her mind stuttered through the pain, a fucking virtuoso. Bastard must have trained under the Nazis or the KGB.
Everything seemed calculated just short of permanent injury. Most of it wouldn't even leave bruises on the surface. Just deep, like on her kidneys, her liver, and her ovaries. She screamed, hoping there was somebody within hearing that wasn't part of the conspiracy.
Thoughts vanished into the roar of pain.
* * *
She woke cold and naked and wet. Her underclothes lay in a stinking puddle, soiled. So that was what they meant, about getting the shit beaten out of you. She never knew it was literal. She hurt all over, not just the beating but raw skin that told her Padric had scrubbed her while she was unconscious. The idea of sleep pulled her so hard she closed her eyes again and ignored the pain, ignored the thoughts of what else he might have done. They weren't important enough.
Sleep. Sleep no more! Macbeth does murder sleep, the innocent sleep, sleep that knits up the raveled sleave of care, the death of each day's life, sore labor's bath, balm of hurt minds, great nature's second course, chief nourisher in life's feast . . . . She drowsed with memories of Drama Club and the sense that if she didn't move, nothing would hurt. Where was good old Macduff when you really needed him, someone to kill this fake Scots Thane of Cawdor?
"Wake up, you filthy bitch!"
Ice-water slapped her again and soaked at her until she realized the cold flowed up from the puddle beneath her. She lay on the stone paving, and some of
