“Or I’ll scream and call the guards.”
“‘The guards,’” he repeated in that low, amused, nearly hypnotic voice. “Here?” He clucked his tongue as if she were a disobedient child. “You’ve tried that before.” She knew for certain that her plight was futile. She would submit to him again. As she always did. “‘The guards?’ Did they believe you the last time?”
Of course they hadn’t. Why would they? The two scrawny pimply-faced boys hadn’t hidden the fact they considered her mad. At least that’s what they’d insinuated, though they’d used fancier words…delusional…paranoid…schizophrenic…
Or had they said anything at all? Maybe not. Maybe they’d just stared at her with their pitying, yet hungry, eyes. Hadn’t one of them told her she was sexy? The other one cupping one cheek of her buttocks…or…or had that all been a horrid, vivid nightmare?
Scratch, scratch, scratch. She felt her nails break the skin.
Humiliation washed over her. She inched backward, away from her tormentor. What was happening to her was her own fault. She’d sinned somehow, brought this upon herself. She was the one who was evil. She had instigated God’s wrath. She alone could atone. “Go away,” she whispered again, clawing more frantically at her arm.
“Faith, don’t,” he warned, his voice horrifyingly soothing. “Mutilating yourself won’t change anything. I’m here to help you. You know that.”
Help her? No…no, no, no!
She wanted to crumble onto the floor, to shed her guilt, to get away from the itching.
Fight! an inner voice ordered her. Don’t let him force you into doing things that you know are wrong! You have will. You can’t let him do this to you.
But it was already too late.
Close to her now, he clucked his tongue. In a rough whisper, he said, “Uh-oh, Faith, I think you’ve been a naughty girl again.”
“No.” She was whimpering. There it was…that horrid bit of excitement building inside her.
“Oh, Faith, don’t you know it’s a sin to lie?”
She glanced at the wall where the crucifix of Jesus was nailed into the plaster. Did it move? Blinking, she imagined Jesus staring at her, his eyes kind but silently reprimanding in the semidarkness.
No, Faith. That can’t be. Get a grip, for God’s sake.
It’s a painted image, that’s all.
Breathing rapidly, she dragged her gaze from Christ’s tortured face to the fireplace…cold now, devoid of both ashes and the mirror above it, now an empty space, the outline visible against the light green paint. They said she broke the mirror in a fit of rage, that she’d cut herself. That her own image had caused her to panic.
But he’d done it, hadn’t he? This devil whose sole intent was to torture her? Hadn’t she witnessed the act? She’d tried to refuse him, and he’d crashed his fist into the looking glass. Mirrored shards sprayed, hitting her, then crashed to the floor like glittery, deadly knives.
That’s what had happened.
Right?
Or not? Now, feeling the blood beneath her nails, she wondered.
What is happening to me?
She stared at her bloodied hands. Her fingernails, once manicured and polished were broken, her palms scratched and farther up, upon her wrists, healed deep gashes. Had she done that to herself? In her mind’s eye she saw her hands wrapped around a shard of glass and the blood dripping from her fingers…
Because you were going to kill him…trying to protect yourself!
She closed her eyes and let out a long, mewling cry. It was true. She didn’t know what to believe any longer. Truth and lies blended, fact and fiction fused, her life, once so ordinary, so predictable was fragmented. Frayed. At her own hands.
She inched backward, closer to the window, farther from him, from temptation, from sin.
Where was her husband…and her children; what had happened to her girls?
Terror burrowed deep into her soul. Confused and panic-stricken, she blinked rapidly, trying to think. They were safe. They had to be.
Concentrate, Faith. Get hold of yourself! Zoey and Abby are with Jacques. They’re visiting tonight, remember? It’s your birthday.