The food, the cake, the champagne, and the wine began to argue with themselves in my stomach. That was what Daddy used to say when he ate and drank too much. It made me laugh, remembering.
Anthony broke out into a wide smile. He was misreading everything.
“You’re having a good time, huh?”
My head spun a little. It wouldn’t take much to get me drunk, probably because I was so mentally and physically exhausted.
He stood there gaping at me with that clownish happy grin. I felt my insides stir.
“I’m having a good time? Sitting here with my leg attached to a chain, wearing a dress that belongs on a woman twice my size, locked in and kept from my family? You call this having a good time?”
I downed the rest of the wine in my glass. There was only a little left in the bottle, but I poured it in and drank that, too. The alcohol was giving me courage.
“I can’t go outside. I can’t breathe fresh air. I have no one to talk to but a cat.”
“You’re where you wanted to be,” he insisted, holding out his hands. “I followed your every wish, Kaylee.”
“That wasn’t me!” I screamed. “That was my sister! Her name is Haylee!”
He stood staring, his lips moving but with no words coming. It was a terrifying sight. He looked like he was boiling over and might charge forward and rip my head off my neck. A small cry of fear came from my lips like a tiny soap bubble. I started to rock in the chair and folded my arms across my stomach and moaned. His eyes widened with surprise.
Suddenly, what I had eaten and drunk came rushing back up my throat. I couldn’t stop it. I heaved onto the table. He jumped back as I heaved again and again. When I paused to catch my breath, he looked stunned, then angry again.
“That’s your fault! You ruined our anniversary dinner. You don’t know when to stop.”
I moaned again and continued to clutch my stomach. The room was spinning faster and faster. I gagged and dry-heaved and spit. He grabbed a dish towel from the sink and rushed to press it against my face.
“Stop!” he ordered. His fingers were like steel, squeezing my cheeks so hard that I thought my cheekbones would fracture. I squirmed and turned in the seat until he pulled away and I lost my balance and fell off the chair. I lay there, sobbing and gasping.
“You go to bed,” he said. “You go right to bed. You don’t deserve to enjoy a celebration.”
He reached down and grabbed my upper left arm, lifting me to my feet. His fingers felt like they were punching holes through my skin. Then he pulled and pushed me toward the bed. When we were there, he reached down and grasped the skirt of the dress. With one motion, he lifted it off me, leaving me totally naked. I tried to cover myself.
“You messed the dress. You’ve messed my mother’s dress,” he said, and pushed me roughly onto the bed. He grasped me around the waist and lifted my body so he could pull the blanket down. He dropped me and tossed the blanket over me. “Don’t you throw up in our bed. Don’t you do that,” he warned. I held my breath and kept my eyes closed. My heart was turning like the wheels of a train on a track, thumpi
ng, stealing away my breath. I swallowed and gasped. I was too weak to cry or speak.
I could hear him moving about, continuing to clean up, and cursing under his breath.
“Ruined our anniversary dinner. Ruined it,” he muttered. I kept my eyes closed. “Spoiled. Just spoiled.”
This will be over, I thought. This will be over soon. He’s disgusted with me now. He won’t want me. He might kill me, but it will be over.
Soon.
I was still dizzy, and my stomach felt like it was churning, grinding up what was left inside it. The only mercy I enjoyed came with sleep, because then I couldn’t think. I welcomed the darkness.
I awoke sometime during the night and heard him snoring beside me. My head began to pound so hard it brought tears to my eyes. I moaned, and he stirred, but he didn’t wake up. I did feel his hand close to my thigh and gently moved away. I tried not to rattle the chain. When I turned to get onto my back, I saw that Mr. Moccasin was lying between us. The cat didn’t move away but raised his head and kept his gaze on me. In the darkness with just the small glow of a light over the stove, the cat’s eyes looked like yellow diamonds.
I couldn’t help wondering if Mr. Moccasin had any sense of the evil in the man who kept him. Jack the Ripper could have had a dog that loved him. Maybe that’s what I would become, his pet. I was on a leash already. He fed me. He expected me to be loyal. The next thing he’d have for me could be a tag around my neck.
My dream of the baker realizing who I was and alerting the police shattered like broken glass. No one had come; no one was coming; no one would ever come. What was my solution? I had tried not talking to him, but that didn’t work. My upset stomach provided another idea. I decided I wouldn’t eat or drink a thing. If I was going to die here, I might as well choose how. Mr. Feldman’s comments about choice and identity seemed the perfect fit for this situation. I was, after all, like someone caught in a current and unable to swim against it.
Anthony groaned and then turned. I held my breath. I didn’t look at him, but I could feel him looking at me. His hand moved slowly, crawling like a spider toward my body. I cringed as his fingers moved over my hip to the small of my stomach, where he opened his fingers and laid his palm flat against it. I could try to fight him off, but I knew I wouldn’t win.
I suddenly recalled Haylee bringing up the subject of rape when we were alone in my room doing homework. A serial rapist had been captured in Philadelphia. He had killed three of his victims, and it clearly looked like they had put up as much of a battle as they could. They were brutally beaten, and two of them were around our age.
“Would you fight or just lie back and enjoy it?” Haylee had asked.