Little Lamb

2:15 AM... The dim glow of the sterling clock is the only light in the room, only bright enough to reveal the glass vase holding a bouquet of red roses he brought in earlier today, or I guess yesterday, technically. The petals are deep, so deep they match the shade of burnt crimson that paints my skin with each prick and slit of their thorns.

The only other visible thing in the room besides the iron oak nightstand decorated with the clock and blood flowers is the heavy link chain welded to the left post of the bed. He stopped chaining me up some time ago. I'm not sure how long exactly. I stopped counting around the 2-month mark, tallies I had drawn onto the bottom of the side table with smashed bits of food abandoned. I no longer recognize the days as they all blur together. The only way I know a new one has started is by the heavy draw of the thick linen velvet curtains, which funnily enough also match the roses, at 8:00 AM every morning accompanied with a deep, excited, "Wake up Beautiful."

If I'm lucky, that's all it is, he'll open the curtains, tell me to wake up, place a tray of the day's breakfast on the matching industrial dresser, tell me he'd be back later with lunch, and leave- a sharp click sounding from the other side of the black door followed by three beeps of the security pad before his footsteps pad away to wherever it is he goes.

If I'm not, sometimes, most times, he'll slither into the empty space beside me. He'll peel the heavy blanket away from my shivering body, ignoring my discomfort to indulge in his perverse pleasure. I could tell from the way his breathing alternated between slow and steady, hitching slightly as he caressed my body, traveling hands burning exposed skin. Sometimes I'd close my eyes and imagine he was Asher, hoping that the thought would make it hurt less and that he would finish quickly. Most of the time, though, I just freeze. Everything freezes. My limbs lock in place only moving if he moves them. My eyes bore holes into the clock. The only thoughts that run through my mind are the fluorescent numbers that stare back at me. There's never any noise, just silence, no ticking, no breathing, no grunting. It was peaceful.

...2:15 AM... Time seemed never to move anymore.

Looking away from the shining timekeeper, I shift my weight and roll onto my left side, numb from the night's events. I stare into the dark abyss and ask myself the same question I do every night; When will it end?

I don't notice my eyelids grow heavy as I think about my family. I miss them so much, my mom, brother and sisters. Asher. What have they been doing? Are they okay? Are they happy? Have they found a new normal, a normal without me there? I hope they have. That's what I imagine when I think about them now.

As I drift to sleep images of them gathered in the living room, laughing and bickering flood my mind. My brother and sisters argue with each other over whose decisions jeopardize the survival of their characters, in the current choice-based game obsession. To the side of them, kittens terrorize the dog, who looks around the crowded room begging for help with a sorrowful gaze. The last thing I see is my mom and Asher, laughing at something one of them said, the corners of their eyes wrinkled with joy and happiness. With this image, I give in with a small smile on my face. Everything goes black.

The light shriek of metal scraping against metal penetrates my unconsciousness as blinding rays of sun warm my fevered pimpled skin

The light shriek of metal scraping against metal penetrates my unconsciousness as blinding rays of sun warm my fevered pimpled skin. "It's time to get up Beautiful." His low timber voice echoes in the large room before footsteps pad towards the bed, in the direction of the stunning red roses that sour my stomach every time I look at them. His breathing matches his movements, light and airy contrasting his mammoth frame.

Squinting against the sun, I come eye to eye with a dulled 8:00 AM. My view is brief, interrupted by his thick arms as he places an embroidered tin tray holding a bowl of cherry grapes, kiwi, berries, and melons, alongside a bagel with each golden half buried underneath a generous spread of cream cheese, besides the clock. The whole thing topped off with a tall glass of freshly squeezed orange juice, citrus tingling my nostrils.

As he retreats I stare at the crimson-thorned rose painted on the inside of his heavily veined wrist, barely catching the tsk...tsk...tsk until his right hand reaches down to pull the wool blanket away from my bare body.

I fight the initial tense of my muscles which doesn't take much effort anymore. Neither does keeping my breaths steady or calming the thud of my heart. "We were too rough with you last night," he husks as his fingertips graze the angry ligature marks decorating my neck where my golden locket used to be. His hand doesn't stay idle for very long. Slowly he runs it along the rest of my frame, tracing raised, bruised swollen skin polluting my shoulders, then my chest, traveling across my belly and thighs to my ankles, muttering to himself about how he would talk to the others.

After examining my front he gingerly rolls me onto my stomach. He curses to himself and I let out an agonizing cry at the cool burn of ointment being rubbed into the shredded slits of what was once my back. The numbness of the night no longer able to comfort me. I sink my teeth into my bottom lip and squeeze my eyes shut, tears escaping their corners, willing myself to stop trembling as the unexpected pain washes over me. He must hear my muffled cries because he reassures me that everything will be alright and that I'm going to be okay, once healed the scars will only enhance my beauty.

Eventually, everything goes silent and I start to feel fuzzy. The last thing I hear is a promise. A promise that should bring me comfort, but only made my heart shatter, "Next time won't be so rough."

Then everything goes black.

The next time I wake up the clock reads 12:13 pm

The next time I wake up the clock reads 12:13 pm. I lift myself slowly pushing against the bed, testing the pain in my back. The burn is gone, replaced with a strong discomfort of tiny pinpricks, like getting a giant tattoo. Discomfort I'm used to.

Feeling no significant pain I gently roll onto my side and take in my surroundings. He's gone and the room is empty once again with nothing but the masculine furniture and myself. The sun shines bright in the sky, beaming against the frosted background with pillowy clouds posing around it. Staring at the view before me is how I usually spend my days here when I'm left alone. Funnily enough, I quite enjoy it, watching the sky change and feeling the warmth through the window pane somehow envelops me in a calming bliss.

Turning back to the clock another silver tray catches my attention. He must have assumed I would wake soon because replacing the bowl of grapes and berries from this morning is one filled with tropical fruits and citruses. Instead of a bagel, a BLT lay on a porcelain plate cut diagonally from edge to edge. In the upper right corner rests a sweating glass of lemonade with floating cubes of ice. In the lower left is a napkin holding two dark blue gel capsules. With one hand I pick them up and with the other, I move the pillows supporting my body.

I stick my free hand between the wall and the bed frame feeling along the edge of the soft mattress. After about five minutes my fingers finally grasp tufts of cotton, slipping through the torn material I tuck the tiny pills inside with the others. Once I'm sure they're secure I stuff a few escaping cotton balls back inside and straighten myself up. It is at this very moment as I am putting the pillows in their rightful place that my stomach speaks. The rumble only intensified by the echo of the spacious room, forcing me to realize that I had not eaten in 38 hours.

Reaching back to the tray, I pluck a piece of pineapple from the bowl and bite into it. The bitterness stings my tung and burns as I swallow. The flowing juices draw my attention to my dry mouth, denied hydration for hours. This prompts me to grab the alluring glass, inhaling half of it to quench my sudden thirst. Zoning out I barely remember devouring the sandwich, the only evidence of my feast being the scraps of lettuce dangling from the corners of my mouth.

Cleaning the plate, I indulge in a yawn I had been fighting since the first time I woke up today. I put the plate back in its spot on the tray and sluggishly raise my arms above my head in an attempt to stretch my aching muscles. I hadn't paid much attention to how they felt until now.

Shimmying to the edge of the bed I swing one leg over the side, then the other. I scoot forward until the soft feel of black carpet tickles my toes. My ankles burn and my knees cry from the weight of my body as I push myself into a standing position. I stand leaning against the bed allowing my limbs to recover and adjust to being moved after being stationary for so long.

After a few minutes, I limp my way into the attached bathroom, hips stiff from last night. Lazily flicking the switch beside the door, I sit on the sparkling toilet seat and relieve myself. To my left is a deep bathtub with an attached shower head hidden behind a charcoal shower curtain; on my right is a matching vanity sink underneath an oval black-trimmed mirror.

Once I finish I contemplate washing the filth of the last 48 hours off me in the shower but stop short of turning the nozzle remembering the tears littering my back and the ointment soothing them. Instead, I grab the washcloth hanging from the shower rail and lather it underneath scalding water flowing from the sink.

As steam begins to fill the room I look up into the mirror, eyes watering as I stare at the person looking back at me. What was once golden skin tinted with a warm glow is now a washed-out pale brown, colored with different shades of red, yellow, blue, and purple. Hollow, glossy brown stones replace wide bright, happy, vibrant chocolate eyes that were typically filled with so much hope. Full cheeks are now flattened, absent of the ever-present blush from laughter. Beautiful full lips are chapped, decorated with recently healed slits of once open wounds. My chest and shoulders are painted in the same varying array of bruises, covered in cuts and scrapes of different shapes and sizes; some old and some just starting to scab over. I start there, running the warm cloth over the contours of exposed skin; applying generous pressure to remove as much dirt filth as possible.

Once my skin reddens, I bring the washcloth to my neck and stare at the yellowish belt-shaped indentation, transforming into a dark purple reminder of last night. I wipe at it gently, trying to make it disappear; that doesn't work. Angrily, I lather again before bringing the cloth back to my throat. I scrub again. And Again. And again. And again, but the yellow just turns more and more purple. A scream sounds through the room. A scream so raw, and deprived, a scream so filled with pain and anguish. The scream startles me so much that I don't realize it's mine until I see the mirrored pain in my reflection.

I scream again, vocal cords straining, face burning as I release the emotions I'd been fighting so hard to ignore, to lock up tight. I scream over and over again, no longer caring about how weak it makes me sound. I sink to the ground and cradle my knees to my chest rocking back and forth.

I sink to the ground and cradle my knees to my chest rocking back and forth.

I'm not sure how long I've been sitting here. Water still rushes from the sink, no longer scalding to the touch. The steam has long evaporated from the tight space, and droplets of condensation have stopped running down the mirror. I stopped screaming a while ago, my mouth unable to produce any more sound. Now I sit limp back pressed against the wall, willing myself to get up.

It takes some convincing, but finally, I slowly push myself to my feet. I turn off the faucet and limp my way back into the main room. On the far right wall is a wardrobe filled with different types of women's clothes, most of them designed to accentuate particular parts of the body. In the back are pieces better suited for comfort and lounging, so I pull out a pair of black leggings and a plain gray ribbed T-shirt.

Slugging back to the bed, I carefully pull on the t-shirt one arm at a time, going especially slow to avoid dragging the thin material across my red, swollen skin. Next, I slide my right leg into the pants sleeve, struggling to balance as I follow up with the left. As I pull them up around my waist, footsteps sound from the other side of the door.

The clock reads 5:30 pm as the footsteps come to a halt. Dinner time. Five chirps sound as he types the pin into the lock pad. I stand still as the click of the lock follows the chirps, and the door is pushed open. Oddly, he doesn't have a tray with him, his hands are empty. Even more odd is the fact that he doesn't come into the room. He simply moves to stand beside the doorframe.

Confusion must cloud my face because all he does is growl "Time for dinner," and extend an arm outwards towards the hallway.

A frenzy of emotions flows through me as I stare at the sanitary white walls of the hallway, contrasting the dark ones I've become so accustomed to. He waits patiently as I tiptoe toward him still not sure what to feel. But then it hits me as I step across the threshold, the hope.

I can finally escape.