She’s whimpering, the new captive. A dull and muffled groaning sound is coming from behind her gag as she sobs and moans like a small child. I want to tell her to stop, that it’s pointless and won’t help her get out of here but the gag tied around my own mouth is too tight. Breathing is an ordeal. Speaking is impossible. Instead, I shuffle forwards and lean down, placing my head against her arm to show her some comfort. To let her know that I mean her no harm, that we are in this together.
The dull crying stops, only for the briefest of moments, then it starts up again, a convulsive sob. Soft and rhythmic. A heart-rending weeping that tears at my soul, making me feel hopeless and lost in this terrible place. Two of us now destined for possible death. Two of us detained for reasons unknown. And yet it would appear we are linked by a common theme – our faces. My hair is matted, my face twisted with grief and fear, my mouth pulled wide by a strip of fabric that stops me from crying out for help. I am unrecognisable. She, however, is still the same woman she was when this monster kidnapped her, her usual features and facial qualities still intact, not filthy and contorted like mine. Not cut and swollen by the regular slaps and punches that she metes out before quietly and gently bathing my sores and then tying me back up again.
She is unfathomable, my captor. An enigma. Everything she does is a mystery to me. I had hoped to work her out by this point but it would appear that her unpredictable ways have got the better of me, her actions and thoughts always one step ahead of my thinking with her erratic behaviour and bizarre requests. I’m too tired to fight her. Instead, I will bide my time, wait for the right moment – if there ever is one – and make my move. I thought I knew her, had the measure of her when we were friends. I don’t. Time and time again, I have tried to climb inside her head, figure out why she has done this thing to me, and come up with a big fat nothing.
I edge back from the crying female, careful to keep the noise to a minimum. Dust motes swirl in the dim light. A dry sensation fills my throat and I have to swallow and still my breathing to suppress the coughing fit I feel rising from my gut. The air up here is thick and musty. I long for a drink of water but know that I’ve had my daily allowance. Any more liquid and I will need to pee in the toilet in the corner. Not that I can reach it, tied up like this. I would have to bang on the floor and then she would arrive, flustered and infuriated, ripping down my jeans and watching me as I release a stream of urine. Or worse. I’ve yet to suffer that indignity. So far, I have been allowed to use the toilet on my own while she stands guard outside. So far. There are times when I feel sure she wants me to be stripped of what little self-respect I have left so she can sneer at my expense. Anyway, it doesn’t really matter as I’m regularly left alone here for hours and hours. I’ve learned to control my bladder and bowels, waiting until she arrives, her duality of anger and tenderness enough to make anybody lose control of their bodily functions.
In the corner, the crying stops, morphing into fits of heavy muffled breathing. It’s silly really, completely skewed and bizarre, but hearing it gives me a sense of ease, helping to quell my fear and loneliness. I’m not on my own any more. I have somebody else here with me, somebody to sit with. Somebody who is just like me. For so long now, I have viewed my captivity here as a weakness on my part, allowing myself to be caught and trapped in this lonely, awful place, but it would appear that my thinking has been askew. I’m not weak. Just unlucky. And now there are two of us. A pair of unfortunates stuck here together.
Our breathing synchronises as the new captive attempts to sit up and take in her surroundings. Through narrowed eyes, I can see that she is about the same build as me but slightly younger. Our faces, however, are almost identical. At least I think so. Her gag has covered the bottom half of her face, but her nose, her eyes, they are mine. Instantly recognisable. We could be sisters. Except we’re not. What we are is prisoners, our fate unknown. Our futures fragile.
I watch her closely as she pushes herself into an upright position using her feet and knuckles, pressing down on the hard flooring and grunting until she is sitting up properly, her back resting against the brick wall. I wonder what she sees when she looks at me. I’m grubby, my hair dirty, my face streaked with tears and dust. I am not the woman I used to be. Does she know that? Or is she able to see beneath the grime and fear and get a snapshot of the real me? To see the essence of who I am, my once raging spirit and sense of adventure still present, or is the new me the only one who is visible? The downtrodden, desperate me. The woman who can see no end to this living hell.
Below us, I can hear movement – the shuffling of her feet, and somewhere in the distance, a low drone, perhaps an HGV lumbering past or an aeroplane overhead – sounds that remind me there is life out there, a world beyond these walls that imprison us.
Making the most of that noise, hoping it will deaden the sound of my movements, I attempt to move closer to my new acquaintance, using what little strength I have in my legs, pressing my backside hard on the floor and pushing with my feet against the floorboards to propel me forwards. The pain in my shoulder grows a hundredfold, waves of agony shooting through the top half of my body. It’s broken. I’m sure of it. Not that it will make any difference to my circumstances. If my head was hanging off, I don’t think it would alter the approach of my captor. She is able to ignore my pain, seeing it as a nuisance, an intrusion to her plans, and would simply carry on beating me, feeding me, trying to brush my hair before discarding me like an old, battered doll, a toy she has grown weary of. Until the next morning, when she would climb the ladder with my breakfast and tell me how she loves me more than life itself. And so it would continue. Love, feed, beat. Love, feed, beat ad nauseum. Until I am dead.
I have no idea what I am going to do now I am sitting next to my new cellmate. I just know that I feel a need to comfort her, to let her know that we are in this thing together. Whatever this thing is. We need friendship and solidarity. Strength in numbers. So far, I have failed in my attempts to reason with the woman who brought me here, the woman I felt sure I knew so well. I have failed to break free, to come anywhere near close to escaping from this room.
After I woke up and first found myself here, shock took hold and I was too numb, too fearful, to do anything, but then a steely determination and a will to survive took over and I tried everything humanly possible to free myself. I spat, fought, kicked, screamed, refused food, my mouth twisting, my body bucking and bending as it was spooned into my mouth, but every single time I was overpowered, unaware at that point that she was drugging me. Silencing me and stripping me of my strength. I soon realised that something was amiss when sleep enveloped me like a dark, heavy cloak after consuming the food. She didn’t want me to fight back and that was her way of quietening me down, making me listless and defenceless. So I stopped with the aggression and resistance because the more I fought, the more she administered those energy-eroding drugs. I feared that one day I wouldn’t wake up at all. There were times when I felt so woozy, so damn sick and exhausted I barely had enough strength to sit upright. In the end, I acquiesced, tried to clear my head, be my best self. My strongest self. I figured that food is energy and when I do finally make my move, I am going to need every last ounce of it to get out of here. Sometimes we need to play ball in order to win, even if the opposition cheats and lies and throws away the rule book, making up their own set of instructions as they go along. One day I will outmanoeuvre her. I just don’t know when that day will be. This new arrival, however, has given me hope. Maybe we can do something together, come up with a plan. I daren’t look too far ahead but sitting here doing nothing isn’t an option. I want to live. I want to get out of this place and the sooner the better before her madness takes hold completely and we all end up dead.