Take Me With You(51)

Today marks day one of my hunger strike.





I think Sam was angry at me at first. He didn't come back for two days. Punishment I suppose. No food or fresh water. I was annoyed because a hunger strike only works if your captor tries to actually feed you. The hunger was sharp, but nothing like what I experienced down in that basement. On day three, he left breakfast for me. When he came back in the evening and it was untouched, he petulantly grabbed the tray and stormed out, leaving me alone.

I still feel sick. Whatever he put in my food, it hasn't worn off. Usually, I'm fast asleep when he brings my food in, but this morning, I've woken up feeling ill and am dry heaving over the makeshift toilet as he comes in.

I swing the door closed for privacy, but once he sets down the tray, he pushes the door open. He always has to counter any act of independence. I pretend I'm just washing up. I don't look at him. I don't say anything. I simply sit on my bed and stare at the sun through the skylight.

Night gets my attention when he pulls out a pad and paper. My heart almost screams with joy. I'm supposed to be mad at him or at the very least indifferent. So I pretend to be unimpressed by the first signs of possible non-sadistic interaction.

He quickly scribbles something on a pad and holds it up.

I didn't poison you.

He had to have.

I scoff. “Well, I don't believe you.”

He huffs and scribbles again.

You're no good to me sick.

How romantic. “Yeah, well maybe you wanted me dead, but I wizened up and threw up the crap you gave me. And I won't eat your food again. I'd rather starve to death.”

You're losing your grip on reality.

When I read that “concerned” note, I start to laugh. At first it's an ironic giggle, but the more I think about the hypocrisy in that statement, I start to laugh hysterically. I'm not trying to piss him off or even mock him, but is he really claiming I'm the one who doesn't operate in reality?

He puffs his chest and stands up, circling away from me in frustration. I try to stop laughing. I am terrified, genuinely. But my body or mind has gone rogue and the laughter won't stop.

“You—” I laugh again. “Put me here—I haven't had a two-sided conversation in months. Or read a book. Or watched TV. One minute you won't speak, the next you're asking me how my pussy feels. If I am losing my mind, it's all your fault!” Like that, the switch flips from uncontrollable laughter to manic rage.

In one quick motion, he turns, grabs a piece of toast from the tray and holds me by the neck, smashing the food against my mouth.

“Eat!” he orders through gritted teeth.

I claw at his arm. My mouth hurts from the impact, and the little buttery crumbs that do reach my tongue are so tempting, but I purse my lips in defiance.

He pulls his hand away and I spit out the bits of bread lodged in my mouth.

“You see?!” I scream. “I'm supposed to trust you? I'm supposed to believe you don't want to kill me when you've been killing me little by little every single day? You can beat me, you can strip me. Put me out in the woods. But I won't eat!” I screech at the top of my lungs.

There's no logic in my protest. This strike started out to keep me alive, but he might kill me right now. No. This is about something else. I'm still not sure what. It's not survival, that's for sure.

He picks up the tray and flings it across the room, juice, toast and hardboiled eggs exploding every which way.

“You want to play this fucking game?” he points a finger at me. “You have no idea how bad things can get. I'm gonna give you one day to reconsider. Because if you don't, you will know what it really feels like for me to want to kill you.”

He marches out of the cabin, slamming the door so hard I swear he's dislodged the frame.

I let out a desperate scream. I don't know what I'm doing or why. I don't know if this man cares that I live or die. And it hurts more than anything to think he might actually care more than my own mother. The man who mocks me with articles reminding me that I am one of the forgotten. The man who keeps me locked in a room. I'm supposed to believe he wouldn't dare poison me?

The mess he left torments me. Not in the way that I want to pick through the debris to eat it, but in that it roils my stomach. I run to the bathroom and vomit bile.

“Nononono…” I whisper to myself with a sudden realization, the thought so traumatic, that perhaps I've deluded myself into thinking of grand poisoning conspiracies.

In nursing school, we had to take a psychology class. I remember learning that sometimes people disassociate to protect themselves from their reality. As I crawl into bed, that thought sits on the surface. I'm unwilling to fully uncloak it and examine why I would make myself believe I was poisoned, and exactly what aspect of my reality am I trying to mask.





I don't want to hit her or torture her. We had a good thing going for a while. A routine. We gave each other what the other needed. She was complaint and it seemed accepting of the circumstances. Then one minute, I'm watching her masturbate to thoughts of me, the next she's in a frenzy claiming I've poisoned her.

She had asked me for weeks for ways to stimulate her mind. Maybe I fucked up and was too hard on her. But now, if I give her something, it'll make her think acting up reaps benefits. No. Four months and I'll have to go back to square one. No contact. No food. No water. Until she breaks again. Hopefully this time, it'll be even harder on her and she'll realize she needs me. That she's happier when she just accepts that.