I’m tempted to smash the dish against the wall, but last time I did that, I cut my feet on the shards I couldn’t see in the too dim bedroom. So, I set it down on the tray instead and go to the window using the dull knife to try to dislodge the board covering the glass. It’s pointless, I know, but it’s something.
A key slides into the lock on my door, and I turn, hating myself for that little swell of hope that maybe it’ll be him. After what he did to me, how do I still feel hope? I’m not even sure what was worse, the humiliation of it, of how he took me, or the pain of the whipping that lasted for days afterward.
But when I see the girl again, it’s like someone’s just pricked that bubble of hope with a pin. My shoulders slump, and I hug my arms around my middle, feeling cold and alone and unwanted.
“Is he coming?” I ask her.
She’s been instructed not to talk to me. Maybe not even to look at me.
A man I don’t know stands at the door as she sets the new tray down.
“Is he coming?” I push, more forceful this time. More angry.
Nothing. She picks up the old tray.
“Look at me! Fucking look at me!” I scream, lunging to grab her wrist, sending the tray toppling, empty dishes scattering. “I’m here! Look at me!”
The man is on me in an instant, backing me into the wall and keeping me there as the girl drops to her knees to clean up. I hear her sniffle. She’s crying.
“Just tell me if he’s coming. Please. Tell him I can’t stay here any longer. Tell him I’m dying. Tell him—” A choke cuts off my sentence. The girl scurries away, and the man releases me. “Please,” I try. I’m not sure they hear that. It’s a pathetically small sound, and even the door closing and the lock turning are louder.
I sit down where I am and lean my back against the wall, hugging my knees to my chest. The smell of the meat turns my stomach. I breathe through my mouth as the wave of nausea slowly subsides, and as soon as I can, I get to my feet and take the dish into the bathroom to flush it. The smell lingers, though.
Switching on the tap, I wash my hands and my face. My hands tremble as I pick up a towel. I open the medicine cabinet and take out the bottle of aspirin Mercedes had left the night of the gala. I twist off the lid, drop two into my palm and swallow them dry. I’m just closing the lid when I think of something and stop.
I remember when Mercedes had left the whole bottle. I’d thought I was desperate then, but I wasn’t. Not like now. Because this isn’t going to change. He hates me. Even knowing I didn’t lie to him, knowing that whoever it is that tried to kill him was willing to let me die too, he still hates me.
Santiago will always hate me, and I don’t even know why.
I empty the contents of the bottle into my palm, watching as some spill over and drop onto the floor.
How many would I need for it to cause kidney failure? For it to kill me.
Do I want to die?
No, of course I don’t want to die. This is stupid.
I pour the pills back into the bottle, but I can’t get the lid back on with my hands trembling like they are. I carry the bottle back into the bedroom and sit on my unmade bed. The sheets haven’t been changed in two weeks. He’s really leaving me to rot. I wonder why he bothers to feed me. But I know that part. If I’m pregnant, he’ll want his heir. Not his baby, but his heir.
Would he cut the baby out of me and let me bleed to death once he has what he wants?
God. I’m truly losing my mind.
I lean my head back and look up at the camera pointed right at me. I stare at it, but he’s not watching. I know because the little blinking light went out a few days after he put me in here. He doesn’t care about me. Why do I need him to? Why do I care? I should be glad he’s abandoned me.
Using the back of my hand to wipe away my tears, I reach into the bottle to fish out two more pills. I swallow them. Then another two. And another two. I cough those up, though, and have to get up to drink the water the girl brought. And I keep swallowing, digging out two at a time until the bottle is empty.
My heart races, a sick feeling in my stomach at what I’ve done. But what else is there to do? Slowly rot? At least this way, he can’t control it. He can’t decide it.
I let the empty bottle drop to the carpet and walk backward to the bed to lie down. When I roll over, I see my sister’s letters scattered beside me through the haze of tears that are so much a part of my life now. Every day. Every day too many tears. I am so tired of it. I’ve read the letters a hundred times. I can’t think about how she’ll feel when she hears what I did. I can’t bear how confused she'll be. How hurt.
I think of Hazel when she left. How I felt. How there was a time I hated her. I felt betrayed and left behind. It’s what I’ll do to Eva, and I hate myself for it. I don’t want to die,
