SIXTY-ONE

I FEAR THEE AND THY GLITTERING EYE

The hours pass.

Miriam’s time is punctuated by fits of rebellion.

And Ashley quieting her efforts.

She tries to go to the door—fling it open, leap into the sea—but even as she’s getting up he’s already on her. Her neck in the crook of his arm. Blood pounding. Legs kicking. He brings her to the very edge of unconsciousness, then drops her.

She tries to attack him. Each time he meets her efforts like she handed him stage directions. He seems to expend no effort at all putting her back on the floor. Eventually, as soon as the thought crosses her mind he stands up like a swift storm rolling in and walks over to punch her in the gut. Or kick her in the side. Or slap her in the face again and again.

None of it hard enough to do any long-term damage. But all of it erosive. Corrosive. Like it’s whittling away at her in a way far deeper than how he threatened to whittle away her mother.

As to her mother— she hears her sometimes. Down there in the cabin. Whimpering. Crying out past the gag. Miriam tries to call to her, and Ashley storms over again, fist up.

But then he laughs. Tells her it’s okay. Tells her she can call to her.

So she does.

She calls down to her mother. Tells her she loves her.

And that she’s sorry.

She tells her this ten times.

Twenty times.

Fifty.

Until the words sound like gibberish in her ears, and maybe they are gibberish—words slurred and garbled beneath the great gasping sobs that come out of her.

And when she’s done, Ashley comes over and slaps her again.

Outside, the gulls and gannets swoop and squall.