does that hurt me? God. What is wrong with me? Why can’t I hate this man who hates me? Because even when I tell him I do, even when I scream the words at him, I don’t. It’s like there’s this sick, masochistic side of me when it comes to my husband. I want him.
And I want him to want me.
“Fuck!”
I pull at my hair, trying to make sense of my thoughts, my feelings. It’s all this isolation. This darkness. Solitary confinement.
I pick up the empty dish I’d set on the counter after flushing the food and go back into the bedroom. Antonia may have figured out I’m not eating, but the girl hasn’t. I wonder if he’s pleased with himself when he hears the report that since his warning, I’ve licked my plate clean. Asshole.
I’m tempted to smash the dish against the wall, but last time I did that, I cut my feet on the shards I couldn’t see in the too dim bedroom. So, I set it down on the tray instead and go to the window using the dull knife to try to dislodge the board covering the glass. It’s pointless, I know, but it’s something.
A key slides into the lock on my door, and I turn, hating myself for that little swell of hope that maybe it’ll be him. After what he did to me, how do I still feel hope? I’m not even sure what was worse, the humiliation of it, of how he took me, or the pain of the whipping that lasted for days afterward.
But when I see the girl again, it’s like someone’s just pricked that bubble of hope with a pin. My shoulders slump, and I hug my arms around my middle, feeling cold and alone and unwanted.
“Is he coming?” I ask her.
She’s been instructed not to talk to me. Maybe not even to look at me.
A man I don’t know stands at the door as she sets the new tray down.
“Is he coming?” I push, more forceful this time. More angry.
Nothing. She picks up the old tray.
“Look at me! Fucking look at me!” I scream, lunging to grab her wrist, sending the tray toppling, empty dishes scattering. “I’m here! Look at me!”
The man is on me in an instant, backing me into the wall and keeping me there as the girl drops to her knees to clean up. I hear her sniffle. She’s crying.
“Just tell me if he’s coming. Please. Tell him I can’t stay here any longer. Tell him I’m dying. Tell him—” A choke cuts off my sentence. The girl scurries away, and the man releases me. “Please,” I try. I’m not sure they hear that. It’s a pathetically small sound, and even the door closing and the lock turning are louder.
I sit down where I am and lean my back against the wall, hugging my knees to my chest. The smell of the meat turns my stomach. I breathe through my mouth as the wave of nausea slowly subsides, and as soon as I can, I get to my feet and take the dish into the bathroom to flush it. The smell lingers, though.
Switching on the tap, I wash my hands and my face. My hands tremble as I pick up a towel. I open the medicine cabinet and take out the bottle of aspirin Mercedes had left the night of the gala. I twist off the lid, drop two into my palm and swallow them dry. I’m just closing the lid when I think of something and stop.
I remember when Mercedes had left the whole bottle. I’d thought I was desperate then, but I wasn’t. Not like now. Because this isn’t going to change. He hates me. Even knowing I didn’t lie to him, knowing that whoever it is that tried to kill him was willing to let me die too, he still hates me.
Santiago will always hate me, and I don’t even know why.
I empty the contents of the bottle into my palm, watching as some spill over and drop onto the floor.
How many would I need for it to cause kidney failure? For it to kill me.
Do I want to die?
No, of course I don’t want to die. This is stupid.
I pour the pills back into the bottle, but I can’t get the lid back on with my hands trembling like they are. I carry the bottle back into the bedroom and sit on my unmade bed. The sheets haven’t been changed in two