Captive Beauty

The next time I open my eyes is when Cilla stirs awake. I watch her roll onto her back. Mascara is smeared across her face and left its trace on the white pillowcase. She blinks, touches her forehead, groans and closes her eyes again, turning onto her side.

I smile. “Headache?”

Her eyes are wide when she shifts again, looking at me, looking around the room. Remembering.

“I feel like I’m going to die.”

I get up, walk toward the bathroom. “You won’t die, but you’ll have less incentive to drink a half bottle of whisky after this morning.” I open the medicine cabinet, get two aspirin and fill a cup with water before returning to the bedroom.

She looks me over. I’m wearing a pair of boxer briefs. She sits up, peeking beneath the blankets, drawing them up to cover herself.

“I took off your clothes.”

“I see that.”

“Don’t worry, I didn’t fuck you while you were passed out.”

She blushes, eyes the pills. “What are they?”

“Aspirin.”

She takes them, sets them on her tongue, takes two sips of water and gives me the glass back.

“Why on earth did you think it was a good idea to drink that much?”

She shakes her head, closes her eyes. I can see she’s hurting. I take a deep breath in. “It might help if you eat something.”

“I don’t think I can keep anything down.”

“Just lay back down then. Sleep a little longer.”

She nods. “I have to pee.”

I push the covers back and offer my hand. She grabs the edge of the comforter to try to cover herself and slides off the bed, almost falling until I catch her.

“I’ve seen you naked already, remember?” I walk her into the bathroom, lift the lid of the toilet and sit her down.

“Can you go away?”

“No.”

“You like humiliating me?”

“In this case, I don’t want you to fall over and crack your head open on my bathroom floor.”

At that, she lowers her lashes, obviously agreeing it’s a possibility but not wanting to give me the satisfaction of admitting it. A moment later, she pees. It’s a quiet trickle. I wait for her to wipe, then help her stand and flush the toilet. She washes her hands, pushes the hair from her face as she looks at her reflection.

“I look like I feel.”

“No, I’m guessing you feel a lot worse. Come on.”

She lets me take her back to bed. Once she’s in, I tuck the comforter up to her chin.

“Why did you have the gun pointing at me?”

She shrugs. “It’s not what you think. I wasn’t pointing at you. I didn’t know you were coming up just then.”

“Why did you pick it up at all? I mean, I understand you would go through my things even though I told you not to. It’s your nature to be…difficult.”

“I’m not—”

“Have you ever even handled a gun before?”

“No. I’ve never touched one. I just saw it and…” she trails off.

“What? And what?” I watch her and she me, and I know she’s trying to decide if she’s going to tell me or not. “You said some strange things last night, Cilla.”

“I was drunk. Drunk people say strange things.”

“No, not then. In your sleep. You said, and I quote, ‘I’ll take the pounds of flesh, Jones’. What does that mean?”

She quickly shifts her gaze, her cheeks reddening. She knows exactly what I’m talking about.

“You said your brother’s name. Several times.”

“I have to sleep.” She rolls onto her side, facing away from me.

“What happened? What do you have to free yourselves from?”

She burrows deeper into the comforter. I wait for her answer, and it takes her a long time to talk. I think I hear her sniffle, but I don’t push it.

“Thank you for taking care of me. You didn’t have to do that, I guess.”

She’s not going to tell me. Not now.

“You took care of me the other night.” I mean when I walked in after my middle of the night trip to the barn. I mean when she wouldn’t leave me alone when I told her to. Because the last thing I wanted that night was to be alone.

I walk out of the bedroom and close the door behind me.

It’s late afternoon when I hear the coffee machine go on. I get up from my desk, walk out of the study to find Cilla in the kitchen. She has the makings of a sandwich on the counter and is nibbling on a piece of bread. Her hair’s wet from a shower and she’s wrapped in a bathrobe. I remember she doesn’t actually have any clothes here.

“I’ll send someone out to pick up some clothes.”

“I have a closet full of clothes in my apartment. It’s only about twenty minutes from her.”

“That’s fine.” I approach the counter.

She looks at me, confused. “Does that mean I can go there?”

“It means I’ll send someone.”

“What do you think I’m going to do? Run? Call for help?”