Page 5 of Spiders in the Grove
The woman raises a finely-groomed brow.
“Then hit her,” she challenges.
Without hesitating, I slam my knee into Naeva’s face; she falls over into the dirt.
I look at the woman, as poker-faced and unintimidated as before. “Toilet or knife,” I repeat, getting irritated.
The woman smiles, and I can’t tell if it’s because she’s impressed, or pissed.
“Tie her legs back up,” she tells the man. “Let’s see how long the bitch can take it before she pisses herself.”
The man comes at me again, and I know I could easily take that knife from him, kill them both, and get myself and Naeva out of here; but alas, getting out isn’t what I came here for.
I pretend to struggle against the man; he thrusts the knife blade against my throat, threatening me so I’ll be still, and eventually I do. And in moments, I’m back to being unable to stand much less walk, much less squat in a corner somewhere and pee. The woman might get what she wanted, after all—I guess I’d rather pee on myself than die.
Shooting her with a hard, piercing look, the woman smiles at me again in response, pulls on Naeva’s elbow and escorts her roughly out of the room. The man closes and then locks the door behind him, shutting out the light, and leaving me alone with my thoughts.
And I just let the pee flow, shaking my damn head at myself. There’s no way I’m going to hold it any longer out of pride, or protest—doesn’t hurt anybody but me.
1:00 a.m. …again
I stink and I’m wet and I feel disgusting. No food. No water. No company. The woman is trying to prove a point—I get that; I’m five steps ahead of her—but if someone doesn’t come for me soon, I may have to—I hear keys jangling again, and the door opens.
A long, blonde braid lays over a shoulder, and it’s all I can see in the limited light. “Finally taking me to the toilet?” I say, but I already know that’s not why she’s here. “It’s a little late for that.”
She closes the door without a word.
Twenty-four-hours later…
Exhausted from no sleep, I can barely move when I hear the door open again. The same braid lays over the same shoulder.
“Are you thirsty?” she asks from the darkness.
“No, because then I’ll end up having to piss on myself again.”
She closes the door, and this time I hear a small laugh just before the light blinks off.
Another day…
I’m seeing and hearing things that aren’t there—figures in the shadows, Victor’s face, Victor’s voice, Dina playing the piano—but when the door opens I know it’s real, and the voice I hear is real, and the suffering is real.
“Are you hungry?”
“No.”
She closes the fucking door and I’m so thirsty, and so hungry, and so tired that I don’t know how long I can keep this up.
Day four? Five?
I hear the door open, but my eyes stay closed—they stay closed even as I drown myself in the bucket of water that was set on the ground in my reach.
I pass out with my head inside the empty bucket.
On the sixth day—maybe it’s the seventh, I don’t know anymore—I can barely move; I lay against the ground, one side of my face pressed to a mound of dirt, my muscles aching, and I’m so dehydrated—maybe the bucket of water was only a hallucination—that my lips are stuck together, and I see spots whenever I try to sit up.
I hear keys jangling outside the room again, and I force myself to sit up straight, to face her with the same strength and defiance as I have every day before this one. But when the door opens, it’s not the woman this time, but a man I’ve never seen before. Without a word or gesture, he grabs my elbow and pulls me to my feet.
Finally!