The breath has been punched from me. The air feels too thick to inhale, each gulp a laborious effort that doesn’t seem to fill my lungs, as I stare down at the cage. My heart pounds against my ribcage, a frantic drum telling me to get as far away from this thing as possible. I told myself, swore to myself, that I would never lay eyes on it again. The desire to be outside of this barn, away from this horrific sight, is almost too intense to bear. The room spins as panic claws its way up my throat, a silent scream that can’t find its way out. But this woman is in there because of me. If I don’t try to help her I’m as bad as him.
‘Hello,’ I say.
She flinches. Undoubtedly she’d been expecting Cal. That’s why she didn’t react when I first came in. She’s resigned to the routine he’ll have forced onto her by now. Her head lifts slowly, her straggly hair parting awkwardly and sticking to her face. Her eyes meet mine.
A strangled cry escapes her that catches in her throat and causes her to descend into a coughing fit. Tears collect in my eyes as I remember it all too vividly.
‘Help … me …’ she wheezes through the coughs.
I want desperately to back away from the cage, to get as far away as possible, but I clench my fists and step closer. The smell hits me as I do and my eyes water.
‘Please let me out.’
‘I’m sorry, I don’t have a key.’
The woman drops her head again and her shoulders begin to shake. The sound of her sobs cracks my heart in two. I can’t watch her cry anymore, the guilt is too much, so I move to kneel by the cage and place the stew on the floor.
‘I brought you some food.’
She glimpses it through the strands of her hair and shuffles forward. Weak, slow movements. The gaps in the bars aren’t big enough to fit the bowl through so I dip the spoon into the stew, making sure to collect a large chunk of meat, and lift it up to her level. Drops of gravy splash onto the floor and I’m quick to wipe them up. There can’t be a shred of evidence that I’ve been here.
Once she’s finished she wipes her mouth with the back of her hand.
‘Thank you,’ she whispers. ‘Is there any more?’
I shake my head. ‘I’ll try and bring a bigger portion next time.’
‘When will that be? When will you be back?’
I swallow hard, wishing I hadn’t said anything. I should have just placed the food on the ground for her and left. Talking to this woman is not only dangerous – all she has to do is mention me to Cal and I’ll be joining her – but it’s making me second-guess my plan entirely. Seeing her here, a picture of me ten years ago, is sowing seeds of doubt into my mind about whether I can actually go through with this, and they’re growing like weeds. Can I really stand by and let this happen? Because it’s not just the cage, is it? Even after she’s free she faces being dehumanised at the cabin, turned into his puppet, raped without the ability to say no, and hurt and punished should she ever try to leave. If I could find the key to the cage I could let her out, give her a chance at escaping.
But I can’t. Aside from the fact the cameras and his sodding alarm system would mean we wouldn’t stand a chance at getting further than the ‘no trespassing’ sign, her keeping Cal busy is the whole reason she’s here. If she gets out now then all of this will have been for nothing. She’s the only way I’ll ever get away from here. If there was another way, I wouldn’t do it. If there was just me to think about, I wouldn’t do it. I’d stay here and take it as I have done for all these years. But it’s not just me and no matter how evil this makes me, no matter how much I know I’ll never be able to forgive myself, I will do anything to protect you and get you away from this place. Even at the cost of another.
I back away from the cage.
Her eyes widen. ‘Wait, please …’
‘I have to go. I’m sorry.’
I turn, flee, tripping and stumbling as I go. My mind is a void. All I know is I need to get as far away from that cage and that woman as I possibly can. As I burst from the barn, I clutch the edge of the door for support, the wood solid and real under my fingertips, a stark contrast to the surreal horror unravelling around me. My breathing is erratic, losing track of itself, ragged gasps that feel like they’re stripping the world of oxygen. My body shakes uncontrollably. I squeeze my eyes shut and attempt to count backwards, anything to stop the panic. I curl in on myself, grip my hair in big, painful clumps and moan as the agony of everything I’ve lost and everything I still stand to lose sinks in.
The cabin stares at me, taunting. I don’t want to go back there. He’s there. Sleeping in my bed. But I have nowhere else to go. My gaze pans the surroundings. Trees. Hills. Beyond that the loch. Beyond that … more of the same. He chose our residence well, always said living out here meant he could make certain I was safe.
Not safe. Unable to get away. If ever you were going to keep someone against their will, this is the place to do it.
The trek back to the cabin is laborious, each step difficult, as if the cabin is pushing me away, warning me not to come back. As my fingers brush against the door handle I pause, a jolt of worry shooting through me. What if he’s not asleep? What if he’s sitting in his chair waiting for me? How will I explain where I’ve been at this time of night? How will I explain my tear-streaked face?
I pull back and move away from the front door, instead deciding to edge around the side of the cabin. My movements are so slow, so imperceptible, as I peer around the side of our bedroom window it takes me an age before I can actually see anything. He’s still there. Seems to be asleep.
At the sight of him the panic returns. I lean my back to the wall and slide down it, curling up in a ball at the foot of the window and gripping my knees to my chest, trying to control my breathing. I need to get a grip. That woman in there needs me. She needs food. But the physical reaction I had upon seeing her, talking to her, was too much. If I’m going to take her anything else I need to be strategic. Food that’s small enough to just pass through the bars without saying a word, but nothing that will leave behind packaging or anything that might hint at my having been there.
It’s an effort to drag myself up and into the cabin. Every limb aches. I feel like I’ve been hit by a truck. Every ounce of me is repulsed at the thought of getting into bed with him, so instead I collapse onto our threadbare sofa. If he wakes up I’ll need to say I couldn’t sleep or something.
And this is how I stay for hours. Staring at nothing in particular but thinking about everything.