The Paper Swan(7)

I closed my eyes and drank. I drank because I couldn’t have stopped myself even if I wanted to. I drank because I was a ravenous, rattle-boned animal. But most of all I drank because some stupid, irrational part of me that sang stupid, irrational lullabies, still held hope. I drank till the water slowed down to a trickle. And when Damian flung the empty, plastic bottle across the room, I watched it roll around on the floor, hoping he would leave so I could stick my tongue inside and lick the last few drops out of it.

I thought back to the Swarovski studded bottle of Bling H20 that Nick and I had barely touched on our last date. He had just made assistant to the district attorney and his first official case was the next morning. It was a celebration that called for something harmless, but with the fizz and pop of a freshly opened bottle of champagne. I should have finished that beautiful, frosted bottle of sparkling water, and gone home with Nick. I should never have headed into the parking lot alone.

I looked up at my captor. He was wiping his hands on his sweatpants. I used the opportunity to take stock of my surroundings. It was a small stateroom with a queen-sized berth. The walls were dark wood cabinets. I guessed they doubled as storage space. There was one window (not big enough to crawl out of), an overhead latch that let through plenty of light (but was bolted down with a chain), and a door. Even if I got out, we were on a damn boat, in the middle of the ocean. There was no place to run and hide.

My eyes came back to Damian. He was watching me from under his baseball cap. It was navy blue with the initials ‘SD’ embroidered in white, the official insignia for the San Diego Padres. Apparently, he was into baseball. Or maybe he wore it because it summed him up perfectly:

Sadistic Douchebag

Also, if he really was a Padres fan, then Stupid Dreamer, because San Diego was the largest U.S. city to have never won a World Series, Super Bowl, Stanley Cup, NBA Finals or any other major league sports championship. It was a curse we suffered from, though my father remained hopeful at the start of every season:

Good luck, San Diego Padres. Break a leg!

“Try anything stupid and I’ll break your legs.” Damian picked up the empty bowl he’d just finished and headed for the door.

I should’ve bashed him over the head with the stool.

I should’ve tackled him so the bowl would slip and break, and then stabbed him with the broken glass.

“Please,” I said instead, “I need to use the bathroom.”

I couldn’t think beyond emptying my bladder. I was reduced to nothing but hunger and thirst and bodily functions. And I was totally dependent on him. ‘Please’ and ‘thank you’ come automatically when you are at someone’s mercy. Even if you hate their guts.

He motioned for me to get up. My legs were wobbly and I had to hold on to him. I was wearing the same clothes—a cream, silk-georgette top and cropped cigarette pants, but they were barely recognizable. Isabel Marant’s Parisian chic looked like it had spent the night rolling around with Rob Zombie.

Damian led me through a narrow hallway. On the right was a small bathroom, with a compact shower stall, a vanity, and a toilet. I turned to shut the door, but Damian stuck his foot out.

“I can’t pee if you’re watching.”

“No?” He started pulling me back into the room.

“Wait.” God, I hated him. I hated him more than I thought I could ever hate another human being.

He waited by the door, not bothering to turn away. He wanted to make sure I understood the situation—that I didn’t count, that I didn’t have a say, that I wasn’t going to be afforded any privacy or mercy or grace or consideration. I was his prisoner, subject to his every whim.

I scooted over to the toilet seat, thankful that I was somewhat shielded from Damian’s view by the vanity. I unzipped my pants, noticing the scratches for the first time. My skin must have scraped against the sides of the crate he’d locked me up in. I touched the back of my head and felt an egg-sized lump that hadn’t stopped throbbing since I’d come around. My legs protested as I sat down, and there were deep, purple bruises on my knees from rattling around in that wooden crate for who knows how long. Worse, my pee would not come, and when it did, it burned like hot acid. There wasn’t much, probably because I was so dehydrated, but I kept sitting, taking a few deep breaths before standing to wipe myself. I pulled my pants back on and was about to wash my hands when I caught my reflection.

“What the hell?” I turned to him. “What the hell did you do to me?”