No.
No.
I have returned.
I look around only to realize that I have been placed in—
The basement.
This is not good. Far from it.
I am sitting in a chair. I try to stand.
I fall, feeling the ropes around my legs. I try to catch myself with my hands.
I land roughly on my wrist. I scream in fear that I have broken it. I shake it vigorously to find that the stinging pain is fading. I sigh.
My wrist is fine.
The door flies open and bangs against the wall. He stands and stares at me, then scans the room looking for the cause of my ear-piercing yell.
I see the change in his face when he realizes I have only fallen. He strolls over to stand in front of me.
He stares.
He swings, makes contact. My head whips around only for my face to slam into the hard, concrete floor. I fight with myself to keep quiet.
I know from past experiences: the more noise I make, the more force he uses. I do not have enough makeup left to allow myself to scream, cry, or whimper.
I can barely even breathe without being beaten.
I lie still on the cold concrete and accept the bruises being painted onto my body. Several minutes later – what feels like hours to my slowed brain – I am being lifted. Shortly after I know we are going up the stairs. I lose consciousness.
-----------------------------------
I wake up naked.
In his bed.
No.
