I jump and put my ear to it. “Daddy?”
“Clemmie?” It’s August who answers. “Is that you?”
“August!” My heart sings. “How did you get in here?”
It must have been difficult for him to get into the basement, but he’ll never get to the room I’m in. A retina scanner permits only Daddy to enter.
“That doesn’t matter,” he answers gruffly. “How can I get you out?”
“You can’t,” I reply matter-of-factly. There’s a comfort in knowing he is a few inches away. Thankfully, Daddy didn’t soundproof this private room. “Only Daddy can get in or out.”
“Fuck,” he curses. “But I’ve found another one of his rings, I’ll—”
“Don’t do anything stupid!” My voice rises a pitch higher than what is comfortable. “Daddy will let me out soon.”
He pauses, then asks, “Are you okay? Did he hurt you?”
“He’s teaching me a lesson,” I reply. “It’s nothing I don’t deserve.”
“I’m so sorry, Clemmie,” August replies. His voice sounds nearer as if he’s sitting on the floor with his back against the door. “Is all of this because of what we did?”
I’m on full alert again.
“You didn’t tell him, did you?”
“Fuck no,” he says, “I just thought—”
“No, this is about something else,” I interrupt, deciding he doesn’t need to know the full details. I smile and slip back into our usual playfulness. “Have you missed me?”
“I thought he killed you, Clemmie.” His words are loaded with deep intensity. “He said you’d be back soon, but I didn’t believe him. I had to know for myself.”
“We’ll be together soon,” I promise, “just like we were in the forest.”
The silence stretches out. My pulse quickens, and I turn to put my hand against the steel. “August? Are you still there?”
I know he is. I can sense it.
“That’s what you want, isn’t it?” I ask. “You want us to be together forever, just like you promised.”
“This whole thing is fucked up,” he grumbles.
That’s not a no.
“But you like fucked up, August,” I remind him, thinking about how I trailed my fingers over his muscles. “You like us.”
“We’ll get out of here soon, Clemmie,” August says. “This isn’t the kind of life you deserve. We’ll go somewhere out in the country. I’ll fix up cars. You can eat, read, write, cook, and do whatever the fuck you want. I’ll take care of you. I’ll make sure you have everything you need. I’ll never share you with another man again. Even your special projects and your pets—”
“I don’t want to talk about my pets,” I interrupt.
Daddy is treating me like I treat one of my pets, apart from I have a small toilet and basin instead of a hole in the ground. My insides still feel tainted after my pet’s final coming polluted me.
“What I mean,” he continues, “is that I’ll find a way. We’ll make everything work, and I’ll help you. Maybe, if you have the life you deserve, you won’t even need them or your collection.”
My collection is a product of years of hard work. It’s been a labor of love. I’ve poured hours into making my artifacts: skinning bodies, teaching myself taxidermy, trying to repurpose a body and transform it into something else.
“My collection has been my life,” I murmur.
“You can use those skills in other ways.”