CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
Warning: Contains graphic description of physical abuse
I'm not sure how long I lay there quietly rubbing Doj's soft ears and letting my mind wander but at some point I must have become so relaxed that I managed to fall asleep.
The nightmare wasn't anything unusual, in fact it's the same one I had for months after escaping.
I'm tied to a bed, my feet and hands wrapped in several loops of rope that trail over the sides of the bed, where I guess they must cross over under the mattress, before they emerge on the other side, I know the ropes are all knotted in one huge complicated knot under the bed cause once every 2 days Craig tips the bed onto its end and checks the tightness by pulling them harshly. I can feel the rope burns on my ankles, my wrists and hands are so cold I'm not sure if they are still attached.
It's light but freezing cold. Craig isn't there, but I know he's not far away; the light is coming in the cracks in the windows towards the points that always are lit when he comes in the door.
I close my eyes, squeezing them tightly, the same way I have every day for over a week while I try and make myself wake up from the nightmare I'm locked in but it doesn't work. It hasn't yet in all the times I've tried.
The footsteps outside let me know that he's coming in soon, so I try to fake being asleep, turning my head away from the door and closing my eyes again. Maybe I'll fall asleep quickly and he'll ignore me, maybe today he'll finally tell me why I'm here.
The door slams open and it's the wall with a loud crash, if I had been asleep that definitely would have woken me up.
My arm is killing me, I'm sure it's grossly infected and half of me hopes the infection will kill me, the other half is stupidly still hoping I'll get out of this alive.
Craig's first stop is the 'kitchen' he calls it. It's a work bench where he's been storing the tins of food he's been bringing back. The clink of several cans tells me it must be the weekend, normally he brings back one can at a time, but when he brought home 3 cans one day he informed me it was the weekend and we've have lots of time together. He eats ¾'s of whatever tin he decides on and if I'm lucky I get the rest. I've spent the last 9 days living on ¼ of a can of cold whatever he has each day.
After setting down his supplies he comes over, yanks my arm over and stares at it for a while, I've given up trying to pretend to be asleep so I watch out of the tops of my eyes, he turns my arm this way and that, trying to decide if he needs to do anything to it. He finally looks down and meets my eyes, "It's looking good. It'll be perfect, not like that ugly mess." He points at the artfully inked flowers and trees that decorate my other arm.
I turn my head, I really can't stand this man and I can't see now what it was that attracted me to him.
He wanders back over to the bench and I hear a few things clatter around before he returns to my side, this time he pulls his chair over, sets it at the end of my bed and sits down. I grit my teeth; I know what's coming now.
He leans over to the bag he's brought and pulls out a rag, its speckled black from grease and oil, and red with blood. He roughly wipes the filthy cloth over my arm before he throws it down and picks up the rum that seems to have become his best friend.
I know better now than to refuse it. I swallow as much as I can before he pulls the bottle away from me. I gag a little, I still hate rum, but it helps numb what's coming next.
He picks the bag up, sets it on his lap and starts unpacking it, sitting the removed things beside my head. I see the normal things I'm expecting. 3 lemons and a gallon bottle of water, which I know he's just filled from the sea. Then he reaches back into the bag and pulls out a half pound bag of salt, that's a new thing to the ritual he's formed for 'cleaning' my arm.
He pours half the water over my arm which makes my muscles tense involuntarily, then he cuts open the lemons, they are juiced into the bottle, with the squeezed halves rubbed over my arm again. The rest of the water is poured over again, but this time he saves about a ¼ inch in the bottom. I'm not sure what he's doing with it, till he opens the salt and starts pouring it into the bottle. When the bag is empty he shakes the bottle a little. There's just enough water in there to moisten the salt.
He starts pouring it on my arm and it's worse than anything else he's done, the pain is so bad that I see lights flashing in my eyes. I can't see what he's doing, but I can feel the patting of his hands as he settles the salt into every tiny mark that he's made on my arm. It feels like forever before he stops, but with one last pat he stands up and walks away.
I try to shake the mess off my arm but he's wrapped it in cling film so tight that nothing moves, it just feels like the salt grates a bit more.
He grins from the end of the bed at the expression on my face. "That's going to make it even better." He informs me in a voice that sounds like he's proud of himself and the agony I'm going through.
"Why?" It's the first word to come out of me since the day I woke up the voice doesn't sound like mine. It's hoarse from the screaming that I've done.
"Because you're mine and I want EVERYONE to know that." He tells me, like it should be obvious. Like he's proposed marriage instead of carving his name into my arm with a paring knife.
He turns away from me and goes to the 'bathroom' which is actually just a bucket in the corner of the room (thankfully it's behind my head), I hear him do his business, and I'm glad that I don't have to see it as well. When he's finished he takes the bucket and dumps it through a hole in the floor that goes straight to the ocean below. I'm really glad that the thought hasn't struck him to use that in his 'cleaning' of my arm. I'm pretty sure it would be more than my mind could take.
Hearing the door open and then a while later the clink of the bucket being set lets me know that even he got sick of the smell and he took it to the water and washed it.
I stare at the ceiling, through the holes to the sky where it's just starting to get dark. I'm not paying any attention to Craig at all, something that frustrates him that even though it's only the 2 of us I still would rather not talk then talk to him.
I'm so far away in my own land, where I'm still in New York but my friends from Charming are there that I don't realise he's moved till he's lying beside me. His hand brushes over the salt/glad wrapped mess that is my arm and I realise he's taken all his clothes off while I've been zoned out.
He moves over the top of me and starts to talk to me about what it will be like when he can let me go, while he's talking all I can concentrate on is where his hands are, and feeling the back of his hand on the inside of my thigh I suck in a deep breath and scream.
I sit bolt upright in bed, Jax is beside me, his gun out of the holster and pointed towards the door as the scream echoes into the room. I hear thudding and the next second Opie is banging the door open so hard the handle lodges in the wall behind it. Light floods in from the hallway and I focus on him, he looks slightly comical, holding his pistol while wearing nothing but his boxers.
I gasp for breath, I know my face is white, I can feel the tears that have made tracks down my face. Doj is huddled in the corner of the room between the dresser and the wall. I know that I scared the shit out of him, ignoring everyone in the room I hold my hand out to him and he inches forwards, when he's within reach of the bed he slowly creeps onto the bed, belly tight to the blankets. When he's close enough I put a hand on his head and slowly rub between his eyes till he relaxes again, sometime later, hell it could be an hour for all I know, I look up. Donna, Opie and Jax are all waiting for me to speak.
"Sorry, I guess talking about it today was a bit much. My brain dug up all the shit I wanted to forget and reminded me why I'm fucked up." The words are a bit hoarse; the scream has obviously done some temporary damage to my vocal cords. I remember the first few nightmares being so bad I lost my voice. It was a blessing for Al and Cam who had taken to sleeping in the same room as me, they actually got some sleep.
"Bullshit," Jax snaps at me. "You're not fucked up. I'm sorry we made you relive it all today."
I cringe back into the corner of the bed and Doj lifts his head and snarls at Jax who immediately looks equal parts terrified and apologetic. I rest my hand back on Doj's head and when he feels me relax he does as well, but he puts his head on my lap and watches Jax's every move.
"Fuck Sarah, I'm sorry. I feel so guilty. It's my fault you dreamt that shit." Donna sounds like she's about to burst into tears.
"It's not your fault." I say. I make up my mind to try and find somewhere else to stay when I get up, not that I think I'll get any more sleep now.
"You okay?" Opie sounds like he'd like to go find Craig now and put an end to him, I'm not sure how much of that is concern for me and how much is pissed-off man whose sleep was interrupted.
I nod, talking hurts at the moment. Donna and Opie head back towards there room. Jax gets up and turns the overhead light off after flicking on the lamp.
Climbing back under the covers he leans over and gives Doj a pat on the neck, my ever protective watchdog's tail starts thumping and he licks Jax's hand as he pulls it away.