I think about what I know about my husband. Not much. Not really. Yet he and I are tied together, locked in this strange, dark place acting out this strange, dark story.
The light is dim, but it’s better than the three candles I’m allotted daily. I think it’s daily at least. I have no idea what day it is or how much time has passed, but it feels like weeks. I have no way to mark the time apart from the meals Antonia brings in or the visits from my husband although he isn’t consistent. The light from the window that I’d been allowed for so short a time has been closed up again, so I don’t even have the luxury of the small square I used to have when I first came here.
No, when I first was brought here. I never came willingly.
In the dim light of the bulb, I splash water on my face, then take in my reflection. I’ve lost weight. You can see it on my face. And for all the sleep I’m getting, I have dark circles under my eyes. My face is starting to look like the tattooed half of his.
I step back with a rueful smile and take in my small breasts and concave belly. I think about how weak I am. How easily broken both literally and figuratively.
Bruises have created a pattern of deep blues, purples, and decaying yellows along my arms, my stomach, my legs and hips. I don’t think he’s seen them. It’s so dark in here even his eyes couldn’t penetrate it. I wonder what he’d think if he did see. It’s his fault. All of it. He may as well physically beat me himself because being locked in here without light, without exercise, and with the heightened anxiety of what he’ll do to me, to my family, I’m completely out of sorts to the point it’s becoming dangerous. I turn a little to touch the still painful bruise on my hip, the gash. It’s from the edge of the dresser.
Taking out the first-aid kit, I pour antiseptic onto a cotton pad and wince when I touch it to the wound. I should let it get infected and put myself out of my misery. Deny him the satisfaction of torturing me to death.
But that’s a fantasy. God knows what he’d do to Evangeline if I took my own life. And then there’s Hazel. Could he find her? Would he?
After discarding the cotton and washing my hands, I leave the light on and walk back into the bedroom to sit down on the bed and wait. It’s all I do now. I wait for Antonia to come, happy for the exchange of a few words when she does. I get the feeling she’s not allowed to talk to me, but she does anyway, at least a little.
I wait for him to come. To fuck me. To degrade me. To leave.
My stomach sinks, and my eyes fill with hot tears, but I am quick to wipe them away.
“It’s better than the cellar,” I say again, gathering the blankets up to cover myself when I hear the key in the lock.
“Dinnertime, dear,” Antonia says as she opens the door.
I am greedy to take in the light of the slightly brighter corridor behind her. She must see my face because she starts to close the door but then stops and leaves it open. But her kind nature and pitying looks only make me feel sadder. More alone. More like crying, and I don’t want to cry anymore. Not for him. Not in front of any of them. So, I swallow it down.
“You need to eat, Ivy,” she says after looking at the untouched lunch tray. It was the same with breakfast.
“I’m not hungry. Do you think I can call my sister?” I don’t even know why I ask. I know the answer, and besides, I wouldn’t want to get her into trouble.
She comes over to sit on the bed, straightening the comforter. “If you eat your dinner, I’ll talk to him.”
I turn away. “Never mind then.”
“You’re only hurting yourself if you don’t eat.”
“I’m tired.”
“He’ll come around.”
I turn to her. “Do you think I did it? What they’re accusing me of?”
She pushes my hair behind my ear. It’s a mess. I haven’t brushed it in days. Haven’t showered in I don’t know how long.
“Of course not. I don’t think you’re capable of anything like that.”
I smile in gratitude. “How can he think it was me?”
“Cozy in here,” comes his dark voice.
Antonia and I startle and turn at the same time, she rushing to her feet as I push up to sit straighter, holding the blanket to me.
“Sir,” Antonia says as she clears my untouched lunch tray and walks past him.
Santiago looks at it, then holds out his hand to stop her as he studies the contents. “Did she eat anything?”
Antonia looks guiltily at me. “No, sir.”
He glances at me, his look hateful even in the dim light. “Breakfast?”
She clears her throat, casts her gaze down, and shakes her head, and I wonder how many days it’s been since his last conjugal visit.
“Is my food not good enough for you?” he asks me after dismissing Antonia.
“How can I be sure you’re not poisoning me?”
He snorts. “That’s rich.” He enters the room, and I grip the blanket tighter, remembering how he’d torn it away the last time he was here. He closes the door. “If you don’t eat the entire tray of food there, I will tie you to your bed and force it down your throat. Am I clear?”
“I’m not hungry.”
“That’s too bad.” He pulls the chair out at the small table. “Come here.”
I look away from him, rubbing my face with one hand. “I didn’t do it. I swear, Santiago.”
“But you lie. Come here. Now.”
“Will you listen to me if I do?”
“Did I give you the impression we were negotiating?”
“No, I know you don’t negotiate.”
“You’re smarter than I thought,
